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WORLD'S 

RENOWNED AUTHORS 

AND THEIR 

GRAND MASTERPIECES OF 
POETRY AND PROSE 

COMPRISING THE 

LIVES OF FAMOUS POETS, HISTORIANS AND NOVELISTS; 
CELEBRATED ORATORS AND STATESMEN; NOTED 
HUMORISTS; BRILLIANT JOURNALISTS AND 
ESSAYISTS; WOMEN DISTINGUISHED 
IN LITERATURE, ETC., ETC. 

INCLUDING 

FAVORITE SELECTIONS FROM THEIR WRITINGS 

TO WHICH ARE ADDED 

BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED ENGLISH AUTHORS AND 
THEIR WORLD-RENOWNED PRODUCTIONS 

By Henry Davenport Northrop 

Author of “Excelsior Writer and Speaker,” “ Grandest Century in the World’s History,” Etc. 


Superbly Embellished with a Gallery of Unrivalled 
Phototype Engravings 

NATIONAL PUBLISHING CO 

230 to 243 So. American Street 

Philai elphia. Pa " 




THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

~ r 'MD CoPItii RECEIVED 

OCT. 25 ton? 

fVievoirtWT entry 

(W'/Sfttjoi. 

DLAfSO'XXo No. 

^IS~9~P 
co rv b 


ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1902 

D. Z. HOWELl 

1 OFFICE OF THE IIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, AT WASHINGTON, D. 



















EN JONSON says that “ the chief glory of a country arises 
from its authors.” R. W. Emerson says, “ Books are the best 
of things if well used.” Our famous American authors are 
grand public benefactors and their renowned works are among 
the brightest glories of our country. The very cream of these 
brilliant works is contained in this Magnificent Volume. 

It is constructed on a New and Original Plan. First, a graphic 
account is furnished of each of the Renowned Authors, and this is followed 
by the very best selections from their writings. The richest thoughts of 
these Master Minds are culled, comprising a Vast Treasury of all that is 
most captivating, most soul stirring, most pathetic, most sublime, most 
glowing in description and eloquent in language. 

The Biographies of the Authors are especially interesting to all 
readers. Their parentage, education, personal traits, titles of their works 
incidents connected with their brilliant careers, and the dazzling 
successes that have made their fame immortal, are all fully stated in this 
work, and the reader is made acquainted with the personality of each. 

The department of Poetry is enriched by the choicest productions of 
Longfellow, Bryant, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, Sigourney, Whitcomb 
Riley, Aldrich, Carleton, Eugene Field, Stoddard, Emerson, Poe, Whit¬ 
man, Willis, Buchanan Read, Saxe, Cary sisters, Stedman, and many 
others, comprising fascinating Ballads, Tales in Verse, Songs that are 
household treasures, and Delightful Poems on a great variety of subjects. 

These bright Jewels of Thought and Sentiment awaken the deepest 
emotions and entrance all readers. There are many Poems that have 
become universal favorites ; they have been gathered from many sources 
and are included in this volume. 

Brilliant Orators, Statesmen and Writers of Fiction are fully repre¬ 
sented. The young people of America are bright, ambitious and anxious 
to obtaiu a good education and better their position. This attractive work 






preface. 


will help them to do it. It points them to the majestic figures of our 
Greatest Americans, both men and women. 

From Washington to Jefferson, from Jefferson to Clay, Webster, 
Wirt, Lincoln, Everett, Phillips, Frances Willard, Haines, Hawthorne, 
Howells, Lew Wallace, Roosevelt, Frank Stockton, all the princely souls 
who have adorned our Literature with the splendid productions of their 
genius are depicted. 

Famous English Authors are also included, from Shakespeare to. 
Burns, Scott, Tennyson, George Eliot, Dickens, and many others, the 
great names that shine in the literary firmament are gathered here into a 
brilliant galaxy. Many of the most captivating and successful literary 
works are from the gifted pens of Female Writers. In Poetry, Fiction, 
Humor and Pathetic productions, they have achieved the highest 
distinction. The reader is delighted with the choicest selections from the 
writings of Women whose names are household words. 

Among so many distinguished authors whose delightful productions 
are the glory of our American Literature it would perhaps be invidious 
to make selections for special mention. The gifted Author of Rip Van 
Winkle, the Sketch Book and Knickerbocker's History of New York, holds 
a prominent place in this work. One of the greenest of laurels adorns 
the brow of Longfellow, our Favorite American Poet, many of whose 
productions are as familiar in the homes of the people as the old-time 
almanac used to be in the homes of their grandfathers. 

Mr. Lowell, who ranks among the first of American Authors, is 
equally at home in the serious, the highly intellectual and the humorous 
fields of Poetry, as may be seen from his productions entitled, “ What Mr. 
Robinson Thinks,” “ Zekel’s Courtin’ ”, and many others. The witty, 
genial, brilliant Dr. Holmes, author of delightful Poems and Works of 
Fiction, is one of our brightest literary stars. 

Every intelligent reader must be aware of the wonderful resources 
from which this volume has been written and compiled. All that is best 
in the productions of the most renowned American and English writers 
has been made to contribute to this work, and to enrich its captivating 
pages. Here are the brightest flashes of genius, the grandest thoughts, 
the most beautiful imagery, the most delicate fancies, and the noblest 
personal examples of the splendid success that comes from persevering 
labor and the most superb intellectual endowments. 







! HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

America’s favorite poet. 17 

| Birth and education. 18 

Graduate of Bowdoin College ... 18 

Professor of Belles Letters at Har¬ 
vard . 18 

First poems and their fame .... 19 

His residence and family. 19 

Works published . 19 

His death. 19 

Characteristics of his poems .... 20 

Adept at portraying Indian life . . 20 

Translations from foreign authors . 20 

“The Old Farmhouse”. 20 

“ The Open Window ”. 21 

“Wreck of the Hesperus ”. 21 

“ The Village Blacksmith ”. 22 

“ The Old Clock on the Stairs” . . 23 
“ The Skeleton in Armor ” . . . . 24 

“ Launching of the Ship ”. 25 

“ Death of Gabriel ” . 26 

“Resignation”.28 

“ A Psalm of Life ”. 29 

“ Lives of Scholars ”. 29 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Renowned poet and journalist ... 31 

Familiar verses. 31 

Writings correct, chaste, never cold. 31 

Birth and early precocity .... 31 

Satire on Jefferson party. 32 

Career at Williams College .... 32 

Far-famed “ Thanatopsis” .... 32 

Life in New York as journalist . . 33 

Books of travels. 33 

“American Skies”. 34 

“ Robert of Lincoln ”. 34 


“ The Love I Bear ” . . . v . . . 35 

“ The Hunter’s Vision ”. 35 

“ Thanatopsis ”. 36 

“ Song of the Greek Amazon ”... 37 

“ The Battlefield ”. 37 

“ To a Waterfowl ”. 38 

“ The Arctic Lover ”. 38 

“ Fairest of the Rural Maids ”... 39 

“ Planting of the Apple-tree ”... 39 

“ Scene on the Hudson ”. 40 

“ Death of the Flowers ”. 40 

“ To the Fringed Gentian ” .... 41 

“ The Murdered Traveller ” .... 41 

The African Chief ” . ..... 42 

“ Corn Husking in South Carolina” 43 

“ Song of Marion’s Men.’’. 44 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

Poet and philosopher. 45 

Birth and education . . 45 

Minister and tBmscendentalist... 45 

Impression made by his writings . . 46 

An acknowledged thinker . . . . 47 

Remarkable personal traits .... 48 

“ Each in All ”. 49 

“ Good-Bye, Proud World .... 49 

“ To the Humble Bee ” . 50 

“ The Rhodora ” . 50 

“The Snow-Storm”. 51 

“ The Sphinx ”. . 51 

“ To Eva ”. 52 

“ The Fore-Runners ”. 53 

“ Thine Eyes Still Shined ” . . . . 53 

“Dirge”. 53 

“ The Amulet ”. 54 

“ The True Hero ” . . . 54 

“ Concord Hymn ” . 55 


v 












































VI 


CONTENTS. 


‘Self-Reliance”. 

“ Beauty of Heroic Deeds ” . . . . 

“ The Thinker ” . :. 

“ The Power of Love ”. 

“ Mountain and Squirrel ” .... 

EDGAR ALLEN POE. 

Erratic and brilliant genius .... 

Hayne’s tribute to Poe. 

Parentage and birth. 

Protege of John Allen. 

First volume of poems. 

Connected with various periodicals. 
Wide scope of his genius .... 
Masterly ingenuity of versification. 

Death in Baltimore. 

“ Annabel Lee ” ...... ^ 

“ The Haunted Palace ”. 

“ The Bells ”. 

“ Lenore ”. 

“ The Raven ”. 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 

Journalist and poet. 

Of Massachusetts birth. 

Contributor to magazines . . 

Collections of poems. 

Prose works. 

Ik Marvel’s glowing tribute . . . 
Tribute from J. WmiXr ^b Riley . 
Characteristics of nis style .... 

“ The Sea ”. 

“There are Gains for all the Losses ” 

“ A Curtain Call ”. 

“ Burial of Lincoln ”. 

FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 

Chronicler of Western life .... 

Birth and early life. 

Adventures in the West. 

Numerous prose works. 

Success of his dialect poems . . . 
Sketches of western character . . . 

List of his works. 

“ Plain Language from Truthful James” 
“ Society upon the Stanislaus” . . . 

“ Dickens in Camp ”. 


JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. 

Birth aud early studies. 75 

Takes the medical degree. 75 

Superintendent of public schools. . 75 

Career as an editor. 75 

Letters to young people. 75 

Well-known poems. 76 

Works of fiction. 76 

One of the most popular authors . . 76 

High moral aim of his Avritings . . 76 

‘ Cradle Song ”. 77 

“ That Young Woman ”. 77 

“ Give Us Men ”. 78 

“Old Daniel Gray”. 78 

EDWARD EVERETT. 

Scholar and orator. 79 

Graduated very young at Harvard. 79 

Enters Unitarian ministry .... 79 

Professor of Greek language and lit¬ 
erature . 79 

Editor of “ North American RevieAv ” 79 

Member of Congress. 80 

In President Fillmore’s Cabinet . . 80 

Oration on Washington. 80 

Speeches and orations. 80 

Unrivalled eloquence. 80 

“ The Mayflower ”. 81 

“ Martin Luther ”. 81 

“ The Fathers of the Republic” . . 82 

American Experiment of Self-Gov¬ 
ernment ”. 82 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

Traveller and poet. 83 

Type of Yankee genius. 83 

His birthplace and ancestors ... 83 

Contributor to neAvspapers .... 83 

Travels in Europe. 83 

Picturesque descriptions of foreign 

life. 84 

Connected Avith “NeAV York Tribune” 84 

Poems of home and travel .... 84 

Works of romance. 84 

Characteristics of his writings . . 85 

Twice married, once in Germany. . 85 


55 

55 

56 

56 

57 

58 

58 

58 

59 

59 

60 

60 

60 

61 

61 

61 

62 

63 

64 

67 

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69 

69 

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72 

72 

72 

72 

73 

74 























































CONTENTS. 


vii 


“ Proposal ’’. 

“ Christmas in Germany ”. 

“Bedouin Love-Song”. 

“ The Long Ago ”. 

“ The Song of the Camp ”. 

WASHINGTON IRVING. 

“Father of American Literature” . 
Of Scotch parentage ...... 

Native of New York City .... 

Travels in Europe. 

Leaves the Bar for authorship . . . 

Humorous works . 

“The Sketch Book”. 

Praise from the “Edinburg Review” 

Works issued in London. 

His “Life of Columbus”. 

Appointmentunder U. S. Government 
“His pen’s bewitching charm” . . 

Tribute from Lowell. 

“The Alhambra by Moonlight” . . 

“ The Organ of Westminster Abbey ” 

“ Broken Hearts ” . 

“ Portrait of a Dutchman ” .... 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

The Bard of Freedom . 

Sang of the wrongs of the oppressed 
Quaker element in his writings . . 
Ancestors, birth and education . . 
Spent many years as editor .... 
Poems and prose sketches .... 
Prominent in the Abolition agitation 

Virility of his poems . 

A consistent humanitarian .... 
Lived a bachelor to the end .... 
A National and patriotic poet . . . 

“In School Days”. 

“The Pumpkin”. 

Maud Muller”. 

•New England in Winter” .... 

■ Virtue Alone Beautiful ” .... 

The Poor Voter on Election Day ” 

“ The Ship Builders ” ...... 

“ The Well of Loch Maree” .... 

“ The Barefoot Boy ”. 


85 

85 

86 
86 
87 


88 

88 

88 

88 


88 

88 

88 

88 

80 


t 


89 


89 ( 

00 I 
01 
01 
92 


08 
03 
03 
03 
03 I 

94 
04 | 
04 

95 
95 
95 
95 

06 j 

06 j 
08 , 
08 | 
00 I 
90 j 

100 j 
100 1 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER, 

Master of Indian romance .... 102 
Popular American novelist .... 102 

Early life on the frontier.102 

Leaves college for the navy .... 102 

First historical novel.102 

His new field of romance.102 

List of published works.102 

Fine delineations of character . . . 103 

Tribute from Bryant.103 

“ The Walter Scott of America” . . 103 

“ Raising the Wind ”.104 

“ Venice at Night ”.105 

“ The Prairie Fire ”.105 

WALT WHITMAN. 

“ The Good Gray Toet ”.107 

Personal appearance.107 

His winning traits.107 

Free in thought and style .... 107 
Ancestry and birth . . • . . . . 107 

Growth of “ Leaves of Grass ” . . 107 
Services in the Civil War .... 107 
Help from foreign friends .... 108 

A life of celibacy.108 

Fame rests on short passages . . . 108 
“ O Captain, My Captain ” .... 108 
“ Sight in the Camp in the Daybreak” 109 
“Death Carol”.109 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.. 

Most distinguished of romancers . . 110 

High rank among authors .... 110 

Eulogized by Longfellow.110 

Born from sailor stock.110 

Educated at Bowdoin College . . . 110 

First works of fiction.110 

Member of Brook Farm Community 111 

His masterpieces.Ill 

Original in invention and expression 111 

Transparent style.Ill 

Delicate fancies and imagery . . . Ill 
His “half acknowledged melancholy ” 111 
i “ Companionship with Children” . . 112 

| “ Little Pearl and Her Mother ” . . 112 

| “Mosses from an Old Manse” ... 113 

“ The Vernal Season ”.114 












































vni 


CONTENTS. 


MARK TWAIN. 

Famous American humorist.... 
Humor of celebrated authors . . . 
Birthplace of Mr. Clemens .... 
Learns the trade of a printer . . . 
Pilot on a river steamboat .... 
From California to Connecticut . . 
Known as humorous lecturer . . . 

List of published works. 

“The Innocents Abroad” .... 

Later humorous writings. 

Published Life of General Grant . . 
Failure of publishing firm .... 

Tour round the world. 

“Playing Jokes on a Guide” . . . 

“ The Babies ”. 

“ Mark Twain’s Watch ”. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Poet and diplomatist. 

Distinctive American literature . . 

Son of a Boston minister. 

Graduate of Harvard and law school 
Begins his career as an author . . 

Humorous satire. 

Lectures on the British poets . . . 
Professor of Languages and Belles 

Lettres. 

Editor of “Atlantic Monthly ” . . 
Great range and versatility of genius 
Combination of humor and pathos . 
Incident rhymed by Longfellow . . 

“Hebe”. 

“ What Mr. Robinson Thinks ” . . . 

“ Without and Within ”. 

“The Courtin’ ”.. . 

HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 

Author of poetry and fiction . . . 
Daughter of an Amherst Professor. 

Education and marriage. 

First writings show marked ability. 

Retires to Colorado. 

Meets with distressing accident . . 
Death in the mountain solitudes . . 

“ Saxel Holme”and “NoName Series ’ 


“Spinning” . .126 

“ The Newsboy’s Debt ” .127 

“ I Choose that Color ” .128 

GEORGE BANCROFT. 

Historian and statesman .129 

Rare mental endowments .129 

Birth and parenta ge .129 

In Harvard College at age of thirteen 129 
Travels in foreign countries .... 129 

Abandons the ministry for literature 129 
School-teacher at Northampton . . 130 

Enters political life. 130 

Member of President Polk’s Cabinet 130 
Minister to Great Britain .... 130 
Famous History of the United States 130 
“ Eulogium on Andrew Jackson ” . . 131 
“ The Connecticut Colonists ”... 131 

“ The Huguenots in Carolina ” . . 132 

“ William Penn ”.133 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
Author of “Sacred Poems” . . . 134 

A native of Maine.134 

Educated at Yale College .... 134 
First productions highly commended 134 
Career as magazine publisher ... 134 

Letters from Abroad . 135 

His marriage in England .... 135 

List of published works .135 

Exquisite finish and melody ... 135 

Rare descriptive powers .135 

“To a Face Beloved ”. 136 

“ Hagar in the Wilderness " ... . 136 

“ Two Women ”. 137 

“ Saturday Afternoon ” .137 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

Author of “Sheridan’s Ride” . . 138 
The poem’s wonderful popularity. . 138 

A Pennsylvanian by birth .... 138 

Residence in England .138 

Prose writings .138 

His works of art .138 

“ The Stranger on the Sill ” . . . . 138 

“ The Closing Scene ” .139 

“ The Brickmaker ” .140 


115 

115 

115 

115 

115 

115 

115 

115 

116 

116 

116 

116 

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120 

120 

120 

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122 

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123 

123 

125 

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125 

125 

125 

126 

126 




































CONTENTS. 


HORACE GREELEY. 

Peerless journalist. 

A Green Mountain Boy. 

Pushing out to make his fortune . . 

Arrival in New York. 

Poverty and industry. 

In a Printer’s office. 

Founds the “New York Tribune” 

Advocate of temperance. 

Espouses the Abolition cause . . . 
Incidents of visit to Europe .... 

His published works. 

Success of his “American Conflict” 
The great journalist’s traits . . . 
Disappointed ambition and death . 

‘ The Great Senators ”. 

‘ The Press ”. 

AMES PARTON. 

Essayist and biographer. 

Birth in England . . 

Biographies of Greeley and others . 
Marriage to “Fanny Fern” . . . 

Works of great value. 

“ Duel Between Hamilton and Burr ” 
“ Old Virginia”. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

Poet and humorist. 

Author of marked originality . . . 

Birth and education. 

Gives up law for medicine . . . ; 

Studies abroad. 

Professor of Anatomy. 

Popularity as a lecturer. 

Contributor to “ Atlantic Monthly” 
“ Autocrat of the Breakfast Table ’’ 

Published prose works. 

Sparkling lyrics .. 

Humor and genial sentiment . . . 

“ Old Ironsides”. 

“Everyone has Two Doors ” . . . . 

“ The Wonderful ‘One-Hoss Shay ’ ” 

“ The Chambered Nautilus ” .... 

“ Katydid ”. 

“ Aunt Tabitha ”.. 


ix 


JAMES A. GARFIELD. 

Orator and statesman.154 

Inauguration ceremonies.154 

Commanding personal appearance . 154 

Born a poor boy.154 

Career in the army.154 

Shot by an assassin ...... 154 

Murderer’s trial and execution . . . 155 
Garfield’s style of writing .... 155 

An effective speaker.155 

“ The Source of Party Wisdom ” . . 155 

WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT. 

Eminent historian.156 

Birth and education.156 

Nearly total loss of sight.156 

Brave against discouragements . . 156 
His “ Ferdinand and Isabella ” . . 157 

First rank as a historian.157 

Fine descriptions and narrations . . 157 

“ Return of Columbus ”.158 

“ First Sight of the Valley of Mexico 

by the Spaniards ”.158 

“ The Profession of Literature ”... 159 

JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 

Humorous poet.160 

Native of Vermont.160 

Admitted to the Bar.160 

Always noted for humor.160 

Popular as a lecturer.161 

Appointed State’s Attorney . . . . 161 
“ The Proud Miss MacBride ” . . . 161 
“Echo”.162 

JAMES GILLESPIE BLAINE. 

Statesman and leader.163 

Of Scotch-Irish parentage .... 163 

Career as a teacher.163 

An editor in Maine.163 

Member of Congress.163 

Senator from Maine.163 

Secretary of State in Garfield’s Cab- 

net .163 

Nominated for the Presidency . . . 163 
Second appointment as Secretary of 
State.164 


141 

141 

141 

141 

141 

141 

142 

142 

142 

142 

142 

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143 

143 

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145 

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152 

153 

153 












































X 


CONTENTS. 


His “ Twenty Years of Congress” . 164 
“ From Oration on James A. Garfield ” 164 
“ Strength of the Republic ” . . . . 165 

JOHN HAY. 

Author and Secretary of State . . 166 

First humorous poems.166 

Born in Indiana.166 

Graduate of Brown University . . . 166 
Private Secretary to Mr. Lincoln . . 166 
Connected with “New York Tribune” 166 
Ambassador to Great Britain . . . 166 
His “Pike County Ballads” . . . 167 
His “History of Abraham Lincoln” 167 

“ Little Breeches ”.167 

“JimBludso”.167 

“ The River ”.168 


ELIZABETH ACKERS ALLEN. 

Author of“ Rock Meto Sleep, Mother” 160 
Writers known by a single production 160 


Her birth. 169 

Known as “Florence Percy” . . . 169 

Contributor to magazines.169 

Married a sculptor.169 

Graceful writer, with poetic taste. . J.69 
“ Rock Me to Sleep, Mother ”... 169 
“Left Behind”.170 

NANCY PRIEST WAKEFIELD. 

Poem that touched every heart . . 171 
Its phenominal popularity .... 171 
Her birth in New Hampshire . .171 
Possessed of undoubted talent . . 171 

“ Over the River ”.171 

HENRY WARD BEECHER. 

Pulpit orator and author.172 

Outgrowth of American institutions. 172 

Able debater when a boy.172 

Wanted to be a sailor.172 

Educated at Amherst College ... 172 
Graduate of Lane Seminary .... 172 
First pastorate in Indiana . . . 172 

Removal to Brooklyn, New York . 173 
Crowds attracted by his discourses . 173 


Advanced reformer.173 

His “Lectures to Young Men ” . 173 

His miscellaneous writings . .173 

“ Coming and Going ”.173 

“Faults”.174 

“ Public Dishonesty ’’.175 

“ The Way of Looking at a Gift ” . . 175 

ETHEL LYNN BEERS. 

Her popular lyrics.176 

Place and date of birth.176 

Contributor to “ Harper’s Weekly ” 176 

Simplicity of style.176 

Easy versification.176 

Productions full of life and spirit . . 176 
“ The Picket Guard ” .176 

CHARLES FARRAR BROWN. 

Known as “Artemus Ward” . . . 177 

Natural humorist.177 

A native of Maine.177 

Character of a “ Showman ” .... 177 
Connected with “Vanity Fair” . . 177 

Popularity as a lecturer.177 

Contributor to “ Punch ” .177 

“ Among the Mormons ” • .177 

Characteristic anecdote.178 

Visit to England.178 

“ Woman’s Rights ”.178 

“ Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers ” 179 


FITZ-GllEENE UALLECK. 

Hailed from the “Nutmeg State” . 180 


Descendant of John Eliot .... 180 

Clerk in New York.180 

Satirical writings.180 

Contributor to the Press.180 

Style, spirited and flowing .... 180 
Humor quaint and pungent . . . 180 

“Marco Bozzaris ”. .180 

“ Joseph Rodman Drake” .... 181. 


ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

First martyred President .... 182 
Stands next to Washington . . . 182 

Place and date of birth.182 




































CONTENTS. 


xi 


Rough life on the frontier .... 182 

Hunger for knowledge.182 

A lawyer in Springfield.182 

Member of Congress.182 

Great debate with Senator Douglas 182 

Efforts to avert civil war.183 

Personal traits.183 

Writings, models of plain English . 183 

His oft-quoted sayings.183 

“ Address at the Dedication of Gettys¬ 
burg Monument”.183 

“Retribution”.184 

GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 

Poet and journalist.185 

Poems of great beauty.185 

Famous for witticisms.185 

A native of Connecticut.185 

Graduate of Brown University . . 185 

Founded “New England Review” . 185 

Editor of “ Louisville Journal ” . . 185 

Humorous writings.185 

“Written at My Mother’s Grave” . 185 

“ A Name in the Sand ”.186 

“ To a Lady ”.186 

“ Heaven Our Home ”.186 

HENRY W. SHAW. 

Known as “ Josh Billings ” . . . 187 

Anecdote of “ Mark Twain ” . . . 187 

Son of a Congressman.187 

Roving life in the West.187 

Real estate agent and auctioneer . 187 

“ Essay on the Mule ”.187 

His plain common sense * • ‘ . 187 

His “ Allminax ”.187 

“Not Enny Shanghai for Me ” . . 187 

“ Letters to Farmers ”.188 

MARIETTA HOLLEY. 

Humorous writer.189 j 

Birthright of wit.189 

Ancestry and birth.. 189 

Early sketches and poems .... 189 

Contributor' to “Peterson’s Maga¬ 
zine ”.189 


Works refused by publishers . . . 189 
Her “ Josiah Allen’s Wife ” . . . 189 
“ My Opinions and Betsy Bobbett’s ” 189 
“ Samantha at the Centennial ” . . 189 

High price for one book.190 

Wholesome humor.190 

Keen eye for the ludicrous .... 190 
“Josiah Allen’s Wife Calls on the 
President”.190 

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. 

Distinguished as a novelist .... 192 

List of his works.192 

Widely known by one poem . . . 192 
Style simple and pathetic .... 192 

“The Vagabonds”.192 

JAMES THOMAS FIELDS. 

Lecturer and poet.194 

Editor of “ Atlantic Monthly ” . . 194 

Publisher in early life. 194 

Intimate friend of Dickens .... 194 
Easy and graceful versification . . 194 

“ Dirge for a Young Girl ” .... 194 
“ The Nantucket Skipper ” .... 194 

“ The Tempest ”.195 

“ Rover’s Petition ”.195 

“ Last Wishes of a Child ” .... 196 
“ Sleighing-Song ”.196 

JOHN B. GOUGH. 

Renowned lecturer and orator . .197 
Marvellous dramatic power .... 197 
Tears and laughter at his bidding . 197 

His birth in England.197 

Sketch of his early life.197 

Song-singer in saloons.197 

Debauched drunkard.197 

His remarkable reformation . . . 197 

Great popularity on the platform . 197 
Lectures in Great Britain .... 197 

His published works.198 

“ The Cause of Temperance ” . . . 198 
“ The Hero of Lake Erie ” .... 198 

“ The Power of Habit ”.198 














































CONTENTS. 


xii 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

Her renowned father.200 

Early education.200 

Employed as teacher.200 

Her first story.200 

Contributor to periodicals .... 200 
History of her great story .... 200 

Its phenomenal sale . 201 

Translated into many languages . . 201 
Visit and welcome in England . . 201 
Mrs Stowe’s other stories .... 201 
Famous Byron controversy .... 202 

Death at advanced age.202 

“ Eva’s Death ’’.202 

“ Only a Year ”.204 

“ Lines to the Memory of Annie ” . 205 

ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 

Style and quality of their writings . 206 
Endowed with natural gifts .... 206 
Pen-name of “ Patty Lee ” . . . . 206 
Sketches of Western life .... 206 

Birth and education.206 

Long residence in New York . . . 206 
Elevated sentiment in writings . . 206 

Active in good works .206 

“ Make Believe ”.207 

“ A Spinster’s Stint ”.207 

“A Dying Hymn ”.207 

“ Pictures of Memory ”.208 

“ Suppose ”.208 

“ Gone Before ”.209 

“ The Chicken’s Mistake ” .... 209 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

“ The Iloosier Poet”.210 

His marked originality.210 

Dialect poems his specialty .... 210 
Vein of humor in his writings . .210 

Birth and early life.210 

Unpromising beginning.210 

Gifted in art and imitation .... 211 

Poem resembling Poe’s.211 

Human element in his writings . . 211 
List of his published works .... 211 

Secret of his popularity.212 

“ Leonaine ”.. , 212 


“ Decoration Day ”.212 

“ Some Day”.213 

“ A Man by the Name of Bolus ” . . 213 
“A Dream”.214 

JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. 

Author of “ Salmagundi ”... . 215 
Writer of both poetry and prose . 215 

Of Dutch ancestry.215 

His numerous works.215 

In President Van Buren’s Cabinet 215 

An independent thinker.216 

Strong American feeling.216 

Quaint and whimsical humor . . . 216 

His select works.216 

“ Quarrel of Squire Bull and his Son” 216 
“ Death in the Country ”.217 

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

Fame rests on one production . . . 218 

Born in New York City.218 

Passion for the stage.218 

Founds a journal in London . . . 218 
American Consul at Tunis .... 218 

Burial in Washington.218 

The Corcoran Monument .... 218 
“ Oration of Brutus over the Body of 

Lucretia ”.218 

“Home, Sweet Home”.219 

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

Almost first American poetess . . 220 

Of Connecticut birth.220 

“ The American Hemans ” . . . . 220 

Wide circle of admirers.220 

Ideal woman of culture.220 

Teacher of young ladies .... 220 
Great number of miscellanies ... 220 

Published works.221 

“ Go To Thy Rest ”.221 

“ The Coral Insect’’.221 

“Man—Woman”.222 

j “ The Early Bluebird ” . . . . . . 222 
I “ Butterfly on a Child’s Grave” . . 223 
I “ Niagara ”.. ... 223 




















































CONTENTS. 


JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 
Historian of the Dutch Republic . 
Graduate of Harvard University . 

Life in Europe. 

Secretary of Legation to Russia. . 

His history of Holland. 

Passed into many editions .... 

Other celebrated works. 

United States Minister at Vienna . 
Great merit as a historian .... 
“ End of the Siege of Leyden ” . . 
“ Hero of the Dutch Republic ” . . 

ROSE TERRY COOKE. 

Her fascinating writings. 

Bright literary star. 

Her short tales. 

Birth, Early Life and Marriage . . 

“A Picture”. 

“ It is More Blessed ”. 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 

His honorable career. 

Editor of “ Atlantic Monthly ” . . 
An industrious author ...... 

New Hampshire man by birth . . 
Contributor to different periodicals . 

List of his prose works. 

Once a newspaper correspondent . 
Contributor to the “Home Journal” 
Degree of Master of Arts from Yale 

“ Kathie Morris ”. 

u The Face Against the Pane” . . . 
“ After the Rain ”. 

EDWARD EGGLESTON. 

“ The Hoosier Author ”. 

Methodist clergyman and journalist 
Son of a Kentucky lawyer .... 
Educated mostly at home ... 
Engaged in various pursuits . . . 
Editor of the New York “Inde¬ 
pendent” . 

Pastor of a Brooklyn Church . . . 
List of his Hoosier Stories . * • * 

“ Spelling Down the Master” , . , 


xiii 


GEORGE HENRY BOKER. 

Famous for his war lyrics .... 237 
Graphic power as a writer .... 237 
“ Lesson of Life and other Poems ” 237 

Published volumes in rapid succession 237 
Entitled to high rank as poet . . . 237 
Sketch of Mr. Boker’s life .... 237 
“ On Board the Cumberland ”... 237 
“Dirge for a Soldier ”.239 

CHAUNCEY MITCHELL DEPEW. 

Orator and statesman.240 

His broad and liberal education . . 240 
Graduate of Yale College .... 240 
Noted for fund of anecdotes .... 240 
Famous after dinner speaker . . . 240 
Long and brilliant public career . . 240 
President of the Central Railroad . 240 
Declined Cabinet position .... 241 
United States Senator from New 

York.241 

“ Andre and Hale ”.241 

“Washington’s Country”.242 

HENRY CLAY. 

America’s peerless orator.243 

“The Mill Boy of the Slashes ” . . 243 

Birth and death.243 

Held many public offices.243 

Twice a candidate for the Presidency 243 
Personal appearance and traits . .243 
Remarkable persuasive powers . . 243 
“First of American Orators’’ . . . 243 
Speeches magnificent and dazzling . 243 
“Shall Greece be Independent?’’ . .243 
“ Danger of Military Supremacy ” . 244 

WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

The silver-tongued orator .... 245 
“ A Gentleman talking ” ... 245 

Son of an old Boston family , . . 245 

Educated for the law.245 

Great anti-slavery agitator .... 245 
Wonderful speech in Faneuil Hall . 245 
Speech that converted Boston . . . 246 
Gave time and money to the cause . 246 


224 

224 

224 

224 

224 

224 

225 

225 

225 

225 

226 

227 

227 

227 

227 

227 

228 

229 

229 

229 

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231 

232 

233 

233 

233 

233 

233 

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233 

233 

234 





























XIV 


CONTENTS. 


Winning personal qualities . . . . 

247 j JOAQUIN MILLER. 


“Toussaint L’Ouverture”. 

His “ Songs of the Sierras ” . 

. . 259 

“ The Character of Washington ” . . 

An eventful career. 

. . 259 


A diamond in the rough . . . 

. . 259 

HENRY WOODF1N GRADY. 

, Life on western frontier . . . 

. . 259 

Far-famed for his eloquence . . . 

249 Becomes a filibuster. 

. . 259 

Rising star of the South. 

249 Lawyer and judge in Oregon . 

. . 259 

Address at the New England Club . 

249 His poetical productions . . . 

. . 259 

Broad and liberal spirit. 

249 Glowing pictures of scenery . 

. . 260 

Brilliant career cut short by death . 

249 “Kit Carson’s Ride ”. 

. . 260 

His remarkable achievements . . . 

250 “ The Fortunate Isles ” . . . . 

. . 262 

“Regard for the Negro Race ” . . . 

250 ! 


“The New South ”. 

o 51 FRANCES E. WILLARD. 



Earnest reformer. 

. . 263 

GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS. 

Leader in cause of temperance 

. . 263 


Lyric poet and song writer . . 
Simple poems of wide repute . 
Philadelphian by birth . . . 
Connected with various journals 
Industrious editor and author . 
“My Mother’s Bible’’ .... 
“Woodman, Spare that Tree” . 
“The Pastor’s Daughter . . . 


252 


RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

Son of Chief Justice Dana . . 
Educated at Harvard College . 
Contributor to “ North Americ 

Review ’’. 

His first poem. 

Success of one of his poems . 
Bryant’s estimate of Dana . 

Close student of Shakespeare 
“ The Pleasure Boat ” . . . 

“ The Little Beach-Bird ’ ’ . . 


253 

253 


254 

254 


254 

254 

254 

254 

254 

254 

255 


MARY ABIGAIL DODGE. 


Noble ornament of her sex 
Native of Western New York 
Professor of Natural Science 
Home protection movement. 

Editor of a daily paper . . 
President of World’s Christian Union 
Conspicuous in works of reform . . 
“ Plea for Home Protection ’ ’ . . . 

“The New Woman ”. 

“Woman and the Ballot”. 

EUGENE FIELD. 

Child lover and poet . . . 

Where born and educated . 

His life at “ ()ld Amherst ” . 

Wrote sermons in boyhood . 

A trip to Europe. 

Exquisite poems for children 
Mr. Field’s published works 
I “ Quotations from Mr. Field’s Poems” 
j “The Duel ” . . 

I “Japanese Lullaby 


Booh! ” 


263 

263 

263 

264 
264 
264 

264 

265 

265 

266 


267 

267 

267 

267 

268 
268 
269 
269 

269 

270 
270 


Known as “ Gail Hamilton ”... 256 

Voluminous writer.256 

Strength of mind and great industry 256 

Well known reformer.256 

Relative of James G. Blaine . . . 256 
Miss Dodge’s miscellaneous works . 256 
Acknowledged merit as a writer . . 256 
A Day’s Sport”.257 


JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 


Author of “ The Culprit Fay ” . 

. 271 

Difficulties of his early life . . . 

. 271 

Fine reputation at college . . . 

. 271 

A victim of consumption .... 

. 271 

Death at the early age of 26 . . 

. 271 

Writings of most delicate fancies . 

. 271 










































CONTENTS. 


xv 


“The American Flag”. 

The Sturgeon ”. 

. 272 

. 272 

“The Bronx’’. 

. 273 

DANIEL WEBSTER. 


“Defender of the Constitution ” . 

. 274 

Poor New Hampshire boy , . . 

. 274 

Studied by light of a log fire . . 

. 274 

Resolves to obtain an education . 

. 274 

Not noted in Dartmouth College. 

. 274 

Clean record and fair standing . 

. 274 

Determines to be a lawyer . . . 

. 274 

“ There is room enough at the top ’ 

’ . 274 

Great tribune of the people . . . 

. 275 

Magnificence of his powers . . . 

. 275 

His great speech in the Senate . 

. 275 

Famous orations and addresses . 

. 275 

Declares w ork made him what he was 276 

His birth and death. 

. 276 

“To the Survivors of the Battle 

of 

Bunker Hill”. 

. 276 

“Liberty and Union ”. 

. 277 

“The Constitution the Safeguard 

of 

Liberty ”. 

. 278 

“Landing of the Pilgrims from the 

Mayflower”. 

. 278 

“Majesty of Public Opinion ” . . 

. 279 

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 


Prominent Southern author. . . 

. 280 

Wrote lyrical and other poems 

. 280 

Well known miscellaneous w riter 

. 280 

His principal poetical works . . 

. 280 

Titles of his publications .... 

. 280 

A charming Southern gentleman 

. 281 I 

“Mother and Child”. 

“The Grape-Vine Swing” . . . 

. 281 

. 282 | 

“ The Lost Pleiad ”. 

. 282 

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 


Novelist and poet. 


His Life of Lincoln. 

. 283 

Magazine poems. 

. 283 1 

Hard working journalist . . . . 

. 283 

Various works of fiction .... 

. 284 

An industrious author. 



His rank among the highest . . . 284 

“ Lost Beliefs ”.284 

“Andenkin”.284 

“ Character of Lincoln ”.285 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 

Poet and man of business .... 286 
Same pen signs checks and writes 

lyrics.286 

His poem “ The Diamond Wedding ” 286 
His poem on John Brown .... 286 
Connected with “New' York Trib¬ 
une ”.286 

Titles of his different works .... 286 

Birth and education.287 

“ A Mother’s Picture ”.287 

“Voice of the Western Wind” . . . 287 

“ The Sleigh-Ride ”.287 

“ Kearney at Seven Pines ” .... 288 

FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. 

Immortalized “ Widow Bedott ” . . 289 
Her mirth-provoking papers . . . 289 

Fine delineator of character .... 289 

Her irresistible humor.289 

Birth, marriage and death .... 289 

“Widow Bedott’s Poetry ” 289 

“Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles ” . 291 

MARY RICE LIVERMORE. 

Great force of character.292 

Birth and ancestry.292 

A teacher in Virginia.292 

A pronounced reformer.292 

Conspicuous in the Civil War . . . 292 
A practical philanthropist .... 292 
“ The Noblest Type of Woman ” . . 293 

WHITELAW REID. 

Editor and diplomat.294 

From the Buckeye State.294 

Newspaper correspondent .... 294 
Invited by Greeley to New York . 294 
Strong in his political views . . . 294 

United States Minister to Paris . . 294 
Works relating to war history . . . 294 







































XVJ 


CONTENTS. 


Special Envoy to Queen Victoria’s 

Jubilee. 

“Patriots of the Buckeye State” . . 

WILL CARLETON. 

Poet of rural life. 

Can touch the popular heart . . . 
Poems that brought him into notice 

Birth and education. 

Lecturer in Great Britain and Can¬ 
ada . 

Merits the position he holds in lit¬ 
erature . 

“Betsy and I are out”. 

“ Little Golden-Hair ”. 

“ Our Natal Day ”. 

DONALD GRANT MITCHELL. 

Famous as “Ik Marvel ” . . . . 
Native of the “Nutmeg State” . . 
Educated at Yale College .... 
His “ Reveries of a Bachelor ’’ . . 
His glimpses of “ Dream Life ” . . 

Visits to Europe . 

Home at New Haven, Conn. . . . 
Praised by Washington Irving . . 
Characteristics of his writings . . 

“ The Country Boy ”. 

“The Old Squire”. 

THEODORE ROOSEVELT. 

Author, Statesman and President . 

Terse and vigorous style. 

Great energy and physical vigor . 

Typical sportsman. 

Known as a “Rough Rider” . . . 
Famous in the Spanish-American 

War. 

Birth and education. 

Official positions. 

Governor of New York. 

President of the United States . . 

His published works. 

“ The Fight at Santiago ”. 

“ Eulogy on President McKinley ' ’ . 


CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 

American poet and novelist . . . 307 
Native of New York city .... 807 
Educated at Columbia college . . . 307 
Lover of the rod and gun .... 307 
Connected with popular journals . 307 

Poems and prose works.307 

Founder of Knickerbocker Magazine 308 
Mental derangement and death . . 308 
“ The Western Hunter to His Lady 

Love”. ‘308 

“ Monterey 308 

“ The Farewell ”.309 

“ Origin of Mint Juleps ”.309 

“We Parted in Sadness’’.310 

“ The Remonstrance ”.310 

MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE. 
Known as “Marion Harland’’ . . 311 
How she obtains her pen name . . 311 

Her birth in Virginia.311 

Marriage and life in Brooklyn . .311 
Well known writer for children . . 311 

List of published works.311 

“ Home Amusements for Young Peo¬ 
ple”. . . . 311 

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

Writer of fiction and verse . . . . 313 

Good old Puritan stock.313 

Passionate and lofty imagination . 313 

A writer at an early age.313 

Her maiden name and marriage . .313 

A poetic romance.313 

“The Wife’’.314 

“ The Merry Brook ’’.314 

“ Robert’s Second Wife ”.315 

LUCY LARCOM. 

Poetess of the Lowell mills . ... 316 

A weaver and writer.316 

Child of poverty and poesy .... 316 

Early hardships.316 

Contributor to “ Atlantic Monthly 316 
Works of rare merit.31 g 


294 

295 

296 

296 

296 

296 

296 

296 

297 

299 

300 

301 

301 

301 

301 

301 

301 

301 

301 

302 

302 

303 

304 

304 

304 

304 

304 

304 

304 

304 

304 

305 

305 

305 

306 





































CONTENTS. 


xvii 


“ A Strip of Blue ’’.316 

“ Hanna Binding Shoes ”.317 

WILLIAM WIRT. 

Virginia’s brilliant orator .... 318 

Birth and ancestry.318 

An orphan at an early age ... . 318 

Attractive personality.318 

Appointed Attorney General . . . 318 
Great speech at the trial of Aaron 

Burr.318 

Holds successive offices.319 

His life of “ Patrick Henry ” . . . 319 

Other important works.319 

“ Who is Blannerhassett ?”.... 319 

FISHER AMES. 

Leader of the Federal party . . . 321 
His eloquence and learning ... 321 

Native of Massachusetts.321 

Member of Congress from Boston . 321 
Persuasive power as an orator . .321 
His retirement from public life . . 322 
Writings of great influence .... 322 
“ Great Men the Glory of Their Coun¬ 
try’’ .322 

“ The Infamy of Violating Treaties ” 322 
“ Public Honor and Fidelity ”... 323 

ROBERT YOUNG HAYNE. 

Cicero of South Carolina .... 324 
Great debate with Daniel Webster . 324 
Master of sarcasm and invective . . 324 
The forerunner of the Civil War . . 324 
Speeches and orations of high rank 324 
Birth, education and profession . . 324 
“ On Mr. Webster’s Defence of New 

England ”.324 

“South Carolina in the Revolution” 325 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 

Poet and novelist.326 

Works of solid merit.326 

Delightful stories for the young . . 326 
Refinement of person and style . . 326 
Her birth in Connecticut .... 326 


Various publications.326 

“ The Late Spring ”.327 

“ The House in the Meadow ” * • . 327 

“The Old Home”.328 

“ Robert Eastman ”.328 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 

Author and educator . 329 

Unitarian minister. 329 

Vigorous writer and lecturer . . . 329 
His “ Ten Times One is Ten ” . . 329 
Writer of ingenous tales ..... 329 

High moral aims .329 


“ Theodore Bourn and Jane Marhill ” 330 
ROBERT JONES BURDETTE. 


Celebrated humorist ....... 331 

Burlington “ Hawk Eye Man’’ . . 331 
Career as a humorous writer . . . 331 

His birth and early life.331 

Titles of lectures and publications . 332 
“Sunday Talk in the Horse-Sheds” 332 
“Alone”.333 

LEW WALLACE. 

Author of “ Ben Hur”.334 

Writers past middle life.334 

Wallace in two wars.334 

A lawyer in Indiana.334 

General in the Civil War.334 

Governor of Utah. 335 

Our Minister to Turkey.335 

His publications.335 

“Appearance of Christ”.335 

“ The Entry of Cortez ”.335 

“ Death of Montezuma ”.336 

LYDIA MARIA CHILD. 

Member of educated family .... 337 

Story of her first novel.337 

Fictitious speech of James Otis . . 337 

Her numerous works.338 

“ A Street Scene ”.338 

“ Beauty and Uses of Flowers ” . . . 339 
“ Unselfishness ”.339 











































xvm 


CONTENTS. 


“ The Self-Conscious and the Uncon¬ 
scious” . 

“ Thanksgiving ” . . , . 

MARTHA FINLEY. 

Author of the “ Elsie Books ” . . . 

A resident of Maryland. 

Distinguished grandfather .... 
From Indiana to New York .... 
Writer of Sunday-school books . . 
Struggle against adversity .... 
Plain, yet captivating style .... 

“ Gallant Captain Burrows ” . . . . 

“ Elsie’s Failure ”. 

PATRICK HENRY. 

Orator of the Revolution. 

A magnificent leader. 

Lack of early promise. 

Ancestry and birth. 

Speech in Virginia convention . . . 
Remarkable effects of his eloquence 
Opposed to Federal Constitution . . 

“ Resistance to British Aggression ” 

“ The War Inevitable ”. 

“We Want Men”. 

JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 

Author and naturalist. 

His diversity of talent. 

In the Confederate army. 

Student of Natural History .... 

His bows and arrows. 

His “Alice of Old Vincennes ” . . 

Titles of his works. 

“ A Vision of Florida. 

JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 

Author of historical novels .... 

Historian of the Pilgrims. 

Familiar with home of the Puritans 

Her Pilgrim story-books. 

Names of other works. 

“ The Old Garrison ”. 


WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

Renowned author and artist .... 352 

Eminent American.352 

Grand conceptions on canvas . . . 352 

Tribute from Griswold.352 

Native of South Carolina.352 

His celebrated paintings ..... 353 

High rank as an author.353 

“ The Language of Autumn ” . . . . 354 

“ An Impressive Vision ” .355 

“Rosalie” . 356 

“ The Spanish Maid ”.356 

“ Love Matches ”. 357 

JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 

“ Sons of their fathers ” .358 

Talent in field of romance .... 358 

A Boston youth.358 

Student of civil engineering .... 358 

List of principal works.358 

His visit to India.359 

Graphic descriptions of famine . . . 359 

Qualities of his writings . 359 

“Better Home Life for Children ” . . 359 
“Victims of the Plague in India” . . 360 
“First Months in England” .... 361 

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 
Essayest and story-writer .... 362 
His “West from a Car Window” . 362 
Work of excellent quality .... 362 

Record of his early life. 362 

Life as a journalist . 362 

Letters on Spanish War . . . 362 

Letters on Greco-Turkish War . . 363 
“ The Turks Routed at Vilestino ” . 363 

SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT. 

Known as “Grace Greenwood” . . 365 
Successful writer for children . . . 365 

Her “ Little Pilgrim ” . 365 

New York her native State .... 365 
Author of many public addresses . 365 

Sunshine in her writings.365 

Useful career in the Civil War . . 366 


340 

340 

341 

341 

341 

341 

341 

341 

342 

342 

342 

344 

344 

344 

344 

344 

344 

345 

345 

346 

346 

347 

347 

347 

347 

347 

347 

348 

348 

349 

349 

i 349 

349 

350 

350 














































CONTENTS. 


XIX 


What Lincoln called her .... 

. 366 

“Baby Florence in Her Bath-tub ” 

. 366 

VAHLLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS. 

Pen-name of “Oliver Optic” . . 

. 368 

Gifted writer for young people . 

. 368 

Vast amount of literary product . 

. 368 

Hundreds of stories and sketches 

. 368 

Began life as a teacher . . . . 

. 368 

A painstaking educator .... 

368 

Some of his best stories. 

368 

“A Yachtsman’s Speech”. 

, 369 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 

Author of “ Ben Bolt ”. 

370 

A many-sided man. 

370 

Physician, lawyer and editor . . . 

, 370 

Member of Congress. 

, 370 

Wonderful success of “ Ben Bolt ” . 

371 

“Ben Bolt”. 

371 

“Johnny Bartholomew ”. 

372 

“ The Charge by the Ford ” . . . . 

373 

“The Browns”. 

373 


“Uncle Daniel’s Apparition and 


Prayer”.379 

“Beinga Boy”.381 

“A Young Scholar”.381 

LYMAN ABBOTT. 

Editor and author.382 

From a distinguished family . . . 382 
Successor to Henry Ward Beecher . 382 
Abandoned law for theology . . . 382 

A pastor in Indiana.382 

Devotes himself to literature . . . 382 

Career as an editor.382 

Man of advanced thought .... 383 

“Lead the Way”.383 

“He Worried About It”.384 

BENJAMIN P. SHILLABER. 

Known as “ Mrs. Partington ” . . 385 
Quaint and humorous sayings . . . 385 

Titles of his works.385 

“My Friend’s Secret”.385 

“John Smith’s Will’’.380 

“ A Party Named Blifkins ” . . . . 387 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 


Humorous novelist.375 

Learned what was his talent . . 375 

Illustrator for periodicals.375 

Becomes a journalist.375 

Connected with magazines .... 375 

His first stories.375 

Voluminous writer.376 

Occasional writer of verse .... 376 
“Pomona Describes Her Bridal Trip ” 376 


CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 


Distinguished litterateur.378 

Quiet humor in his writings ... 378 
Birth and college education .... 378 

Quits law for journalism.378 

First published work.378 

Droll conceits and satires .... 378 
Works of travel in the East. . . . 379 
Wrote “Gilded Age” with Mark 
Twain.379 


JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 

Known as “ Uncle Remus ” . . . 389 

His broad humor.389 

Delineator of Southern character . 389 

His career as journalist.389 

Droll sketches of animals.389 

“Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox and Mr. Buz¬ 
zard” .390 

JOHN HABBERTON. 

Author of “ Helen’s Babies ” . . . 394 
Fads of the reading public .... 394 

Life in the West.394 

Connected with the Harpers . . . 394 

\\ r riter for newspapers.394 

Titles of his stories.394 

“Budge’s Version of the Flood” . . 395 
“A Great Tune”.396 

CHARLES FALLEN ADAMS. 

His humorous dialect.398 

I Author of “ Yawcob Strauss ” # . . 398 













































XX 


CONTENTS. ■ 


Native of the old Bay State . . . 398 
Wounded in the Civil War . . . . 398 
Contributor to “ Detroit Free Press ” 398 
“ The Puzzled Dutchman ’ ’ .... 399 

“ Hans and Fritz ”.399 

“Mr. Schmidt’s Mistake”.399 

“Ah-goo”.400 

“Yawcob Strauss ”.401 

EDWARD PAYSON ROE. 

Writer of religious novels.402 

High aims and pure style .... 402 

Birth and college course.402 

A settled pastor.402 

Describes great Chicago fire . . . 402 

Large sale of his works.403 

“The Blind God”.403 

AMELIA BARR. 

Distinguished novelist.405 

Native of England.405 

Sharp bereavements.405 

Finds friends in New York .... 405 
Writings of popular merit .... 405 


Her evident industry.405 

“Alan and Flora”.406 

EDGAR WILLIAM NYE. 

Writer of humorous sketches . . . 408 

Educated in the West.408 

Connected with New York journals 408 

Death in North Carolina.408 

“The Photograph Habit”.408 

“How William Milked a Cow” . . 409 
“ Mr. Whisk’s Little Trick ” . . . . 410 
“ Discovery of New York ” .... 410 

JOHN PIERPONT. 

Author of “ Airs of Palestine ” . . 411 

Stately style.411 

Elevated sentiment.411 

Poems of wide repute.411 

His hymns and odes.412 

“Warren’s Address ”.413 

“The Exile at Rest”.413 

“My Child”.413 

“Not on the Battlefield ”.414 

“ Plymouth Dedication Hymn ” . . 415 

“For the Fourth of July ” .... 415 





























FAVORITE POEMS AND SELECTIONS OF PROSE 

FROM 

FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS. 


The Wants of Man 

•John Quincy Adams 416 
The Bivouac of the Dead 

Theodore O' 1 Kara 418 
Last Hymn .... Philip P. Bliss 419 

The Hail. G-eorge H. Clark 419 

Columbia. Timothy Dwight 420 

Hail Columbia . . Joseph Hopkinson 421 
Good Night . . . Charles T. Brooks 422 
The Long Ago . Benjamin F. Taylor 422 
Indian Heroism . . . Philip Freneau 428 
Alexander Hamilton 

Gouvenieur Morris 423 

Independence Bell.* . . 424 

The Philosopher Toad 

Mrs. R. S. Nichols 425 
Battle Hymn of the Republic 

Julia W. Howe 426 
The Blue and the Gray 

Francis M. Finch 426 
Star Spangled Banner Francis S. Key 427 
A Snow Storm . Charles G. Kastman 428 
The Drunkard’s Dream 

Charles W. Denison 429 
My Maryland . . James R. Randall 430 
Advice to Young Men . Noah Porter 431 
No Sects in Heaven . Mrs. Cleveland 431 
I Would Not Live Alway 

W. A. Muhlenberg 433 

How Cyrus Laid the Cable.434 

A Life on the Ocean Wave Kpes Sargent 434 
The Frost .... Hannah T. Gould 435 
An Ax to Grind , Benjamin Franklin 435 

The Farmer’s Wife ..436 

Old Grimes .... Albert G. Greene 437 

The Dying Hebrew. Kirnbie 438 

Washington’s Address to His Troops 439 
Visit of St. Nicholas Clement C. Moore 440 


The Bravest Sailor 

Klla Wheeler Wilcox 441 
There’s Danger in the Town 

John H. Gates 441 
The Drummer Boy’s Burial .... 442 

Press On. Park Benjamin 443 

The Light of Knowledge Elihu Burritt 444 
The Old Oaken Bucket 

Samuel Woodworth 445 

Fate of General Burgoyne.445 

Dignity of Labor . Frances S. Osgood 446 
Decoration Day . . T. W. Higginson 447 
John Maynard . . Horatio Alger, Jr. 447 
Song of the Prairie . . I. K. Mitchell 448 
Rain on the Roof. . . Coates Kinney 449 
Rodney’s Ridge . Eldridge S. Brooks 450 
A Summer Girl . . Samuel M. Peck 451 
The Moneyless Man Henry T. Stanton 451 


To the Ladies.452 

Love’s Seasons Amelia Rives Chandler 453 

Colinet and Phebe.. . 453 • 

The Hand that Rocks the Cradle 

W. R. Wallace 454 
Old Farmer Grudge ......... 454 


Opportunity .... Clara J. Denton 455 
Old Continentals . Guy H. Macmaster 455 
The Weaver . . Mary C. Huntington 456 
Immensity of Creation 

Prof. 0. M. Mitchell 456 


Never Trouble Trouble.457 

The Old Wife.457 

When I went Fishing with Dad 

Mary K. Vandyne 458 
The Mosquito Hunt.459 


The Pessimistic Philosopher .... 460 
A Lover Without Arms 

Henry Davenport 460 
Lake Erie .... Ephraim Peabody 461 


xxi 



















Celebrated English Authors 

TOGETHER WITH THEIR 

WORLD-RENOWNED PRODUCTIONS. 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Favorite English poet.462 

Alone and unapproached.462 

His brilliant genius.462 

His “ In Memoriam ”.462 

Oft-quoted verses.462 

Estimate of his writings.463 

“Ring Out, Wild Bells”.464 

“ Come into the Garden, Maud’’ . . 464 
“Flow Down, Cold Rivulet” .... 465 

“ The Land of Lands ”.465 

“ Locksley Hall ”.466 

“ Song of the Brook ”.470 

“ The Splendor Falls ”... .471 

“The Final Goal”.491 

“The Miller’s Daughter”.472 

“ Break, Break, Break ”.472 

“ Crossing the Bar ”.472 

ROBERT BURNS. 

Scotland's Sweetest Bard .... 473 

His humble origin.473 

Traits and habits.474 

His first successes.474 

“ My Heart’s in the Highlands ” . . 474 

“ To Mary in Heaven ”.474 

“ John Anderson, My Jo ”.475 

“ The Chevalier’s Lament ” .... 475 

“ The Cotter’s Saturday Night ” . . 475 

“ Man Was Made to Mourn ” ... 476 

“Bannockburn”.477 

“Afton Water”.478 

“ Holy Willie’s Prayer ”.478 

“ Highland Mary ”.479 

xxii 


WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE. 


Statesman and author.480 

An uncrowned ruler.480 

Early political life.480 

His superb leadership.480 

A man of the people.481 

Tribute of Arnold.481 

“ Reply to Disraeli on the Reform 

Bill”.481 

“ The Irish Church ”.482 

“ On Lord Macaulay ”.483 


ROBERT BROWNING. 

His first poem of note.484 

Author of dramas.484 

Romantic marriage.484 

“ Incidents of the French Camp ”. • 484 

“ The Moth’s Kiss, First ” .... 485 

“ One Way of Love”.485 

“ Evelyn Hope ”.485 

“ Misconceptions ” .486 

“ The Flower’s Name ”. 486 

•“ The Lost Leader ” .487 


ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 

Rare poetic gifts.488 

Person and character.488 

Her well-known productions . . . 488 

“ Cowper’s Grave”.488 

“The Sleep” •.489 

“ Three Kisses ”.490 

“ A Woman’s Question ”.490 

“ How Do I Love Thee ? ”.491 














































CONTENTS. 


“ The Child and the Watcher . . . 491 
“ My Heart and I ”.492 

GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 

His unfortunate parentage .... 493 

Home in the Highlands.493 

At Cambridge University .... 494 

Brilliant and erratic.494 

A friend of Greece.494 

His untimely death.495 

“ Daniel Boone ’*.496 

“ Farewell to His Wife ”.496 

“ Henry Kirke White ”.497 

“Napoleon”.497 

“ She Walks in Beauty ”.498 

“ Enslaved Greece ”.498 

“Greece”.499 

“ Apostrophe to the Ocean ” . . . . 499 
“ The Snows of Parnassus ” . . . . 500 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

A poetic artist.501 

His most famous poem.501 

Inspiring battle pieces.501 

Founder of London University . . 501 
“’Tis Distance Lends Enchantment 

to the View’’.502 

“Napoleon and the Sailor” .... 502 

“Woman’s Smile”.503 

“ Exile of Erin ”.503 

“ To a Fair Young Friend ” . . . . 504 

“ Lord Ullin’s Daughter ”.504 

“ Flowers—the Gems of Nature ” . . 505 

“ The Soldier’s Dream ”.505 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

World’s greatest novelist.506 

Pathos and humor.506 

Sympathy with the poor.506 

Sketch of his career.506 

Visits to America.507 

His most admired works.507 

“ Mr. Pickwick in the Wrong Room ” 509 
“ Recollections of My Christmas Tree ” 509 
“Little Nell’s Funeral”.511 


xxiii 


“ The Friendly Waiter ”.511 

“Bardell Versus Pickwick ” . ... 514 
“ The Ivy Green ”.515 

THOMAS MOORE. 

The “ Bard of Erin ”.516 

His life and works.516 

“ ’Tis the Last Rose of Summer ” . . 517 
“ When First I Met Thee” . 517 

“ Come, Rest in this Bosom” . . . 518 

“ Those Evening Bells ”.518 

“ Go Where Glory Waits Thee” . . 518 
“ The Light of Other Days ” . . . . 519 
“ Though Lost to Sight to Memory* 

Dear”.519 

“Palestine” .519 

“ The Home of Peace ” ■••... 520 
“ Sublime Was the Warning ” . . . 520 

“The Life-boat”.521 

“ Those Endearing Young Charms ” 521 
“ Oh! Arranmore, Loved Arran- 

more ”.521 

“ The Light-house ”.522 

“ The Scented Vase ”.522 

“ When He Who Adores Thee ” . . 522 

“ What the Bee is to the Floweret” . 523 

“ Black and Blue Eyes ”.523 

“ A Canadian Boat-Song ” .... 523 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Well born and bred.524 

An author late in life.524 

His celebrated works.525 

His residences.525 

Romance in his stories.526 

“ Breathes there the Man ” . . . . 527 

“ Battle of Flodden ”.527 

“ Christmas in Olden Time ” .... 528 

“ Sunset at Norham Castle ” .... 529 

“ Rob Roy’s Reply to Mr. Oswald- 

stone” .529 

“ Border Ballad ”.530 

“ Gathering Song of Donald the 

Black”.530 

“ Marmion and Douglas ”.531 























































XXIV 


CONTENTS. 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 

II is unrivalled fame. 532 

Estimate of bis works. 532 

Career as a dramatist .532 

Honored by an American .... 532 

His tragedies and comedies . . . . 533 

“Imagination”. 533 

“ Anne Hathaway ”. 533 

“Othello’s Despair ” .534 

“Antony’s Oration Over the Body of 

Caesar ”. 534 

“ A Dagger of the Mind ”. 535 

“Mercy”. 536 

“Queen Mab”. 536 

“ Over Hill, Over Dale ” .537 

“ Woolsey’s Fall” .537 

“ The Course of True Love ” . . . . 538 

“Woolscy’s Speech to Cromwell” . . 538 

“ Soliloquy on Death ” .538 

“Where the Bee Sucks ” .539 

“ Crabbed Age and Youth ” . . . . 539 

“Influence of Music” .539 

WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. 

Early life and writings.540 

Had to wait for fame.540 

Contributor to “ Punch ” .... 540 

His famous works.540 

“ Little Billee ” .541 

“ Sorrows of Werther ”.541 

“ Mr. Molony’s Account of the Ball ” 541 
“ British Washerwoman’s Orphan's 

Home” .542 

“ The End of the Play ” .545 

THOMAS HOOD. 

His celebrated poems .546 

Pathos and humor .546 

Hard lot in life.546 

Unrivalled punster.546 

“ The Song of the Shirt”.546 

“ I Remember, I Remember ”... 547 

“Autumn”.548 

“No” .548 

“ Faithless Nelly Gray ”.548 

“John Day”.549 

“ The Bridge of Sighs ” .550 


THOMAS B. MACAULAY. 

Historian and essayist.552 

His political career.552 

Polished style of his writings . . . 552 

Elevated to the peerage.553 

“ The Reign of Terror”.553 

“ Battle of Naseby ”.554 

“Horatius”.555 

“ Puritans of the 16th Century ” . . 556 
“ The Fate of Virginia”.557 


JOHN MILTON. 

The greatest religious epic .... 559 
Puritan ancestry.559 


“ Paradise Lost ”.559 

Sold for seventy-five dollars . . . 559 
Milton’s celebrated works .... 559 

His blindness.560 

“ Selections from ‘ Paradise Lost ’ ” . 560 

“ On His Blindness ”.561 

“ To the Lord-General Cromwell” . 561 
“Song: on May Morning” .... 562 

“ Abdiel ” 562 

“ Samson Agonistes ”.562 

“ Adam Describing Eve ”.563 

“ From the Hymn to the Nativity ” . 563 

DOUGLAS W. JERROLD. 

Author of “Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain 

Lectures ”.565 

His published works.565 

Connected with London “Punch” 565 
“ Mrs. Caudle on Lending Umbrellas” 565 
“ Mrs. Caudle on Shirt Buttons” . . 566 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


Lack of early promise.567 

Poor and unsuccessful.567 

Leaves medicine for literature . . . 567 
His “ Vicar of Wakefield” . . . . 567 

His comedy “She Stoops to Con¬ 
quer” .567 

His various works.567 

“Home”.568 

“ Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog ” 568 

“ Holland ” .569 

“ Moses and the Spectacles ” . . . , 569 


















































CONTENTS. 


XXV 


RUDYARD KIPLING. 

Birth in India. 

Editor and journalist. 

Vigor and and freshness of style . . 

“ Recessional Hymn ”. 

“The Future”. 

“ The Islanders ”. 

FELICIA D. HEMANS. 

Celebrated poetess. 

Poems of world-wide fame .... 

“ The Spartans’March ”. 

“ The Hour of Death ”. 

“ The Greeks Return from Battle ” . 
“ The Songs of Our Fathers ”... 
“ Landing of the Pilgrims ” . . . . 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

Brilliant literary light. 

“ Song that fills all heaven ” . . . 

Birth, career and death. 

“ The Cloud ”. 

“To a Skylark ”. 

ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. 

Poet of passion. 

His poems censured. 

Acknowledged genius. 

“ When the Hounds of Spring ” . . 

“ Baby’s Feet ”. 

“The Disappointed Lover” . . . . 
“ Kissing Her Hair”. 

GEORGE ELIOT. 

Distinguished novelist. 

Her intellectual power. 

Her life criticized. 

“ A Passage at Arms ”. 

“ Godfrey and Dunstan ”. 

“ Dinah the Methodist ”. 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

Noted for hymns and poems . . . 
His ballad of “ John Gilpin” . . . 
Victim of melancholy. 


One of his famous poems.591 

“ My Mother’s Picture ”.591 

“ The Cricket ”. 593 

“The Happy Man”.593 

“ Humanity ”. 594 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

“ Poet of nature ”.. . 595 

One of the “ Lake Poets ” .... 595 

Education and travels. 595 

“The Traveller’s Dog”.595 

“ Ode on Immortality ”.596 

“ She Was a Phantom of Delight” . 597 

ALFRED AUSTIN. 

England's laureate.598 

Identified with journalism .... 598 

Editor and author.598 

Contrary opinions as to his merits . 598 

“Together”.598 

“ The Last Redoubt ”.599 

“ Is Life Worth Living” . ... 599 

“ A Royal Homecoming ”.600 

CHARLES KINGSLEY. 

His stirring tales.602 

His renowned works.602 

His “ Westward Ho ! ”.602 

“ The Fishermen ”.603 

“ O, Mary, Call the Cattle Home” . 604 

“ The Merry Lark ”.604 

“ The Day of the Lord ”.604 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

An orphan boy.605 

His bent of mind . •.605 

“ Hymn at the Footof Mont Blanc ” 605 
“ The Quarrel of Friends ” .... 606 

JOHN RUSKIN. 

Authority on art.607 

Forcible and brilliant style .... 607 

“ Book Buyers ”.607 

“ The Dawn of Peace ”.608 

“ Colors in Nature ”.608 


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QUESTIONS ON THE SUBJECTS TREATED IN THIS VOLUME ... 609 





















































Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

America’s Favorite Poet. 


O POET in either hemisphere has gained a distinction more 
enviable than that of Longfellow, or has done it more 
gracefully. It must be admitted by every reader that there 
is a peculiar charm about his productions, and for this rea¬ 
son one of the greenest of laurels adorns the brow of this 
favorite American poet, who, it has been said, is even more 
extensively read and admired in England than at home. Many of his 
productions are as familiar in the homes 
of the people as the old time almanac 
used to be in the homesteads of our 
grandfathers. 

Longfellow studied the principles of 
verbal melody, and rendered himself mas¬ 
ter of the mysterious affinities which ex¬ 
ist between sound and sense, word and 
thought, feeling and expression. There 
is an aptitude, gracefulness and vivid 
beauty in many of his stanzas which at 
once impress the memory and win ear and heart. There is in the tone of 
his poetry little passion, but much quiet earnestness. His ideas and met¬ 
aphors are often striking and poetical, but there is no affluence of imagery 
or wonderful glow of emotion such as take us captive in Byron or Shelley; 
the claim of Longfellow consists in the wise and tasteful use of his 
materials rather than in their richness and their originality. He 
illustrates the gentler themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, 
and particularly the beautiful, with a poet’s deep conviction of their eternal 
claims upon the distinctive recognition of mankind. The encomium pro, 
nounced upon him by Francis F. Brown cannot fail of general apprecia¬ 
tion : 




2 


“ O thou revered, beloved ! not yet with sob of bells, with eyes tear wet, 
With faltering pulses do we lay thy greatness in the grave away ; 

Not Auburn’s consecrated ground can hold the life that wraps thee round. 


17 






18 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


« Still shall thy gentle presence prove its ministry of hope and love ; 

Thy tender tones be heard within the story of Evangeline ; 

And by the fireside, midst the rest, thou oft shalt be a welcome guest. 

“ O happy poet! Thine is not a portion of the common lot; 

Thy works shall follow thee, thy verse shall still thy living thoughts rehearse ; 

The ages shall to thee belong —an immortality of song.” 

The best-loved singer of the English race was born at Portland, 
Maine, February 27th, 1807. His surroundings were calculated to 
develop the poetical instinct which appears to have been his birthright. 
The old saying that “ the poet is born ” is as true in his case as in that 
of any other. His genius was a gift, an inheritance that marked him in 
very early life for the high position he afterward gained in the world of 
literature. Like every person of genuine feeling, he carried the memories 
of his childhood’s home in his heart to the end; the reminiscence throbs 
in that exquisite poem, “ My Lost Youth : ” 

“ Often I think of the beautiful town that is seated by the sea ; 

And with a joy that is almost pain my heart goes back to wander there ; 

And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again.” 

Longfellow graduated from Bowdoin College in 1825, * n a d ass that 
contained many young men who afterward became distinguished. He 
was soon afterward appointed tutor, but in a short time commenced the 
study of law in his father’s office at Portland. He soon tired of this, as 
one could well imagine would be the case, considering his flights of fancy 
and poetical gifts. Having been invited to the chair of modern languages 
at Bowdoin he visited Europe to prepare himself for the position. Every¬ 
where he laid in material for the exquisite writings which were to follow. 
In 1831 he married Miss Mary S. Potter, a “love” of earliest days. In 
1833 he published a number of translations from the Spanish which were 
well received. 

Harvard College invited him, in 1835, to the chair of modern 
languages and belles lettres, a most honorable appointment and one 
unsought. He again visited Europe, but suffered great bereavement 
in the loss of his wife who died at Rotterdam. The sorrow of that dark 
trial found a fitting voice in the pensive cords of the “ Footsteps of 
Angels.” In 1839 he published “ Hyperion,” a charming story of his 
travels, and in the same year appeared his first volume of original poems, 
entitled, “ Voices of the Night,” which contains several short poems that 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


19 


rank among the immortals, notably the “ Psalm of Life,” and “ The 
Reaper and the Flowers,” with its mate, “ Footsteps of Angels.” 

In 1841 came another cluster of poems which have attained great fame, 
and appear even at that early age to have been as fully marked with his 
genius as any of his subsequent writings. Longfellow was married to 
his second wife, Miss Frances K. Appleton, of Boston, in 1843. He es¬ 
tablished his home after his second marriage in the “ Revolutionary 
House ” built early in the eighteenth century and used as headquarters 
by Washington when he assumed command of the American army in 
1775. Here he resided for the most part to the end of his life. The 
house, a picturesque mansion, was set in the midst of a spacious lawn 
adorned with glorious old elms, while the great memories of the place 
made it a sacred shrine in the estimation of all true Americans. 

The poet continued his literary work in connection with his profes¬ 
sorship, and at regular intervals issued such productions as added to his 
growing fame. The year 1847 witnessed the production of his most per¬ 
fect poem, “Evangeline,” a tale which has been almost universally read 
and has been received with great favor. A more delightful idyl has not 
been given to English verse than this exquisite creation. Take, for in¬ 
stance, these words: 

“Silently one by one in the infinite meadows of heaven, 

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me nots of the angels.” 

In 1849 Longfellow published “ Kavanagh,” a novel; also a small 
volume of poems, “ The Seaside and the Fireside.” In this volume ap¬ 
pears the poem, “Resignation,” which is one of the gems of our lan¬ 
guage. In 1851 “The Golden Legend” appeared, a poem abounding in 
beautiful passages. He resigned his professorship in 1854, and in the 
following year brought out “ The Song of Hiawatha,” in which he sang 
the legends of the North American aborigines. This was followed in 
1858 by “ The Courtship of Miles Standish,” which proved as successful 
as anything our poet had created. 

The outbreak of the Civil War and the tragedy of his wife’s death 
by the accident of a burning dress in her own home served for a time to 
silence his muse. Having recovered somewhat from the terrible shock, 
his gifted pen was again employed and so continued until the time of his 
death, which occurred at Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882. Some of 
his later productions are “New England Tragedies” (1868) ; “The Di- 


20 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


vine Tragedy ” (1872); “ Three Books of Song ” (1873); “ The Hanging 
of the Crane” and “The Masque of Pandora” (1875). A posthumous 
drama, “ Michael Angelo,” appeared in 1883. 

As a poet Longfellow is characterized by tenderness and depth of 
feeling, to the expression of which the picturesque and graceful simpli¬ 
city of his language often imparts an inexpressible charm. He seldom 
or never attempts to excite admiration by lofty flights and ambitious 
metaphors, or by the exhibition of dark and terrible passions. He relied 
chiefly for his success on his simple and direct appeal to those sentiments 
which are common to all mankind—to persons of every rank and every 
clime. It is perhaps not too much to say that he is not merely the first 
but the only writer who has succeeded in giving a deep and living in¬ 
terest to a story of Indian life. Notwithstanding the crudeness of the 
materials which were laid to his hand, he yet produced a poem which not 
only comes home to the hearts of the masses of the people but which ex¬ 
cites the admiration of the public reader who takes into account the in¬ 
herent qualities of the task. 

A good-deal of Longfellow’s literary work consisted in translations 
from the writings of foreign authors, in which he showed great aptitude, 
so that while with ordinary translations the charm of the original is apt 
to be marred or lost entirely, his translations preserved for the most part 
all the original beauty, and in many instances even added to it. 


THE OLD FARMHOUSE. 


W E sat within the farmhouse old 

Whose windows, looking o’er the bay, 
Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port— 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town— 
The lighthouse—the dismantled fort— 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 

Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 

Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been and might have been, 

And who was changed, and who was dead ; 


And all that fills the hearts of friends, 

When first they feel, with secret pain. 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 

That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 

Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 

Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap and then expire. 




HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


21 


And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main— 
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent an answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames— 
The ocean, roaring up the beach— 

The gusty blast—the bickering flames— 
All mingled vaguely in our speech; 


Until they made themselves a part 

Of fancies floating through the brain— 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 

That send no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! 

They were indeed too much akin, 

The driftwood fire without that burned, 

The thoughtsthat burned and glowed within. 


THE OPEN WINDOW. 


T HE old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 

And on the graveled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery window’s 
Wide open to the air; 

But the faces of the children, 
They were no longer there. 


The birds sang in the branches, 
AYith sweet, familiar tone; 

But the voices of the children, 

Will be heard in dreams alone! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 
He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand! 


THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

The news of a shipwreck off the coast of Massachusetts prompted Mr. Longfellow to 
write the following spirited poem. “Norman’s Woe” is the name of a dangerous reef. 
Between the hours of twelve and three one night the poem was written and without any 
apparent effort. 


I T was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; [daughter 
And the skipper had taken his little 
To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day ; 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

With his pipe in his mouth, 

And watched how the veering flaw did blow 
The smoke, now west, now south. 

Then up, and spake an old sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish Main— 

“ I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

“ Last night the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see,” 


The skipper he blew a whiff 1 from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the northeast ; 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 
The vessel in its strength ; [steed, 

She shuddered, and paused, like a frightened 
Then leaped her cable’s length. 

“ Come hither, come hither, my little daughter, 
And do not tremble so; 

For I can weather the roughest gale 
That ever wind did blow.” 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat, 
Against the stinging blast; 

He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 







22 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


“ O father, I hear the church-bells ring! 

O say, what may it be ? ” 

“ ’ Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast,” 

And he steered for the open sea. 

“ O father, I hear the sound of guns! 

O say, what may it be?” 

“ Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
In such an angry sea! ” 

“ O father, I see a gleaming light! 

O say, what may it be ? ” 

But the father answered never a word— 

A frozen corpse was he! 

Lashed to the helm all stiff and stark, 

With his face to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming 
snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and 
prayed, 

That saved she might be ; 

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the 
waves, 

On the lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and 
drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, 
Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe. 


And ever, the fitful gusts between, 

A sound came from the la d ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks, and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
She drifted a dreary wreck, 

And a whooping billow swept the crew, 

Like icicles, from her deck. 

She struck, where the white and fleecy waves 
Looked soft as cardtd wool; 

But the cruel rocks they gored her side 
Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts, went by the board; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank— 
Ho! ho! the breakers roared. 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair 
Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed 
On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight, and the snow ; 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman’s Woe. 


THE VILLAGE 

NDER a spreading chestnut-tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands; 

And the muscles of his brawny arm 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp and black and long: 

His face is like the tan ; 

His brow is wet with honest sweat,— 

He earns whate’er he can, 

And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge 
With measured beat and slow, 


BLACKSMITH. 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school, 
Look in at the open door; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from the threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys; 

He hears the parson pray and preach : 
He hears his daughter’s voice, 

Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, 
Singing in Paradise! 






HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


23 


He needs must think of her once more, 
How in the grave she lies; 

And with his hard rough hand he wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 

Onward through life he goes: 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close; 


Something attempted, something done, 

Has earned a night’s repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought I 


THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 


S OMEWHAT back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; 

And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all: 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass: 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night 
Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, along the floor, 

And seems to say at each chamber-door : 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 

It calmly repeats those words of awe : 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted hospitality; 

His great fires up the chimney roared : 

The stranger feasted at his board ; 


But, like the skeleton at the feast, 

That warning timepiece never ceased : 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

There groups of merry children played, 

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 
O precious hours! O golden prime, 

And affluence of love and time! 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told : 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 

The bride came forth on her wedding night: 
There, in that silent room below, 

The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 

And in the hush that followed the prayer 
Was heard the old clock on the stair: 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

All are scattered now and fled, 

Some are married, some are dead ; 

And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 

“ Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? ” 

As in the days long since gone by, 

The ancient timepiece makes reply: 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever! ” 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain and care, 

And death and time shall disappear— 
Forever there, but never here! 

The horologe of eternity 
Sayetk this incessantly: 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever 1 ” 





24 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


During some excavations at Fall River, Massachusetts, the workmen came upon a 
mail-clad skeleton. This suggested the following poem, which is associated with tradi¬ 
tions of the earliest discoverers of America. 


( C r">PEAK ! speak! thou fearful guest! 
^ Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me! 

Wrapt not in eastern balms, 

But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me?” 


Then from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seem to rise, 

As when the northern skies 
Gleam in December; 

And, like the waters flow 
Under December’s snow, 

Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart’s chamber. 


“ I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold, 

No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee! 

Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 

Else dread a dead man’s curse! 
For this I sought thee. 

“ Far in the northern land, 

By the wild Baltic’s strand, 

I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the ger-falcon; 

And, with ray skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 
Trembled to walk on. 


“ Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 
Fled like a shadow ; 

Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf s bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

“ But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair’s crew, 


O’er the dark I sea flew 
With the marauders. 

Wild was the life we led ; 

Many the souls that sped, 

Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stem orders. 

“ Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long winter out; 

Often our midnight shout 
Set the cocks crowing, 

As we the Beserk’s tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 

Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o’erflowing. 

“ Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 

Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender; 

And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 

On that dark heart of mine 
Fell their soft splendor. 

“ I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 

And in the forest’s shade 
Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 

Like birds within their nest 
By the hawk frighted. 

“ Bright in her father’s hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 
Chaunting his glory: 

When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter’s hand. 

Mute did the minstrels stand 
To hear my story. 

“ While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind gusts waft 
The sea-foam brightly, 




HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


So the loud laugh of scorn, 

Out of those lips unshorn, 

From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 

“ She was a prince’s child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled, 
I was discarded! 

Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew’s flight, 

Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded ? 

“ Scarce had I put to sea, 

Bearing the maid with me— 

Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen !— 

When on the white sea-strand 
Waving his armed hand, 

Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

“ Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 

Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us ; 

And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 

So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

“ And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helsman’s hail 
Death without quarter! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel, 

Down her black bulk did reel 
Through the black water 

“ As with his wings aslant 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 


Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 

So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 

Through the wild hurricane 
Bore I the maiden. 

“ Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o’er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to leeward : 

There for my lady’s bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 

Which, to this very hour, 

Stands looking sea-ward. 

“ There lived we many years; 
Time dried the maiden’s tears ; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother; 

Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lives; 

Ne’er shall the sun arise 
On such another! 

“ Still grew my bosom then, 

Still as a stagnant fen ! 

Hateful to me were men, 

The sun-light hateful! 

In the vast forest here, 

Clad in my war-like gear, 

Fell I upon my spear, 

O, death was grateful! 

“ Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 

Up to its native stars 
My soul ascended! 

There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, 
Skoal / to the Northland ! skoal! 
—Thus the tale ended. 


THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 


A LL is finished, and at length 
Has come the bridal day 
Of beauty and of strength, 
To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
With fleeoy clouds the sky is blanched, 
And o’er the bay. 

Slowly, in all its splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 


The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 
Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 






26 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast, 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honor of her marriage-day ; 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending 
Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray old sea, 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 
Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see! she stirs, 

She starts, she moves—she seems to feel 
The thrill of life along her keel, 

And spurning with her foot the ground 
With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean’s arms. 

And lo! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 

“ Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray; 
Take her to thy protecting arms 
With all her youth and all her charms.” 

How beautiful she is! how fair! 

She lies within those arms, that press 
Her form with many a soft caress. 

Of tenderness and watchful care 1 


Sail forth into the sea, O ship! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer; 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 

O gentle, loving, trusting wife! 

And safe from all adversity, 

Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be, 

For gentleness, and love, and trust, 

Prevail o’er angry wave and gust; 

And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives! 

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
Humanity, with all its fears, 

With all its hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what master laid thy keel, 

What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
AVho made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge, and what a heat, 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 

’Tis of the wave aud not the rock; 

’Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale. 

In spite of rock and tempest roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all ■with thee,— 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
Our faith triumphant o’er our fears, 

Are all with thee — are all with thee. 


DEATH OF GABRIEL 


From “ Evangeline.” 


T HEN it came to pass that a pestilence 
fell on the city, 

Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly 
by flocks of wild pigeons, 

Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught 
in their craws but an acorn. 

And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month 
of September, 


Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads 
like a lake in the meadow, 

So death flooded life, and, overflowing its 
natural margin, 

Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of 
existence. 

Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to 
charm the oppressor, 





HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


27 


But all perished alike beneath the scourge of 
his anger ; 

Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends 
nor attendants, 

Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of 
the homeless. 

Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of 
meadows and woodlands; 

Now the city surrounds it; but still with its 
gateway and wicket, 

Meek in the midst of splendor, its humble 
walls seems to echo 

Softly the words of the Lord: “ The poor ye 
always have with you.” 

Thither by night and day, came the Sister of 
Mercy. The dying 

Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, 
to behold there 

Gleams of celestial light encircle her fore¬ 
head with splendor, 

Such as the artist paints o’er the brows of 
saints and apostles, 

Or such as hang by night o’er a city seen at a 
distance. 

Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the 
city celestial, 

Into whose shining gates their spirits ere long 
would enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets 
deserted and silent, 

Wending her quiet way, she entered the door 
of the almshouse. 

Sweet on the summer air was the odor of 
flowers in the garden, 

And she paused on her way to gather the 
fairest among them, 

That the dying once more might rejoice in 
their splendor and beauty. 

Then, as she mounted the stairs to the cor¬ 
ridors, cooled by the east wind, 

Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes 
from the belfry of Christ Church, 

While intermingled with these, across the 
meadows were wafted 

Sounds of Psalms that were sung by the 
Swedes at their church in Wicaco. 

Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the 
hour on her spirit; 

Something within her said: “ At length her 
trials are ended ; ” 


And, with light in her looks, she entered the 
chamber of sickness, 

Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful 
attendants, 

Moistening the feverish lips, and the aching 
brow, and in silence 

Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and 
concealing their faces, 

Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of 
snow by the roadside. 

Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline 
entered, 

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she 
passed, for her presence 

Fell on their hearts like a ray of sun on the 
walls of a prison. 

And, as she looked around, she saw how 
Death, the consoler, 

Laying his baud upon many a heart, had 
healed it forever. 

Many familiar forms had disappeared in the 
night time; 

Vacant their places were, or filled already by 
strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling 
of wonder, 

Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, 
while a shudder 

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the 
flowers dropped from her fingers, 

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and 
bloom of the morning; 

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such 
terrible anguish 

That the dying heard it and started up from 
their pillows. 

On the pallet before her was stretched the 
form of an old man ; 

Long, and thin, and gray, were the locks that 
shade his temples ; 

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face 
for a moment 

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its 
earlier manhood ; 

So are wont to be changed the faces of those 
who are dying. 

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush 
of the fever, 



28 


HBNRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had 
besprinkled its portals, 

That the angel of death might see the sign, 
and pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his 
spirit, exhausted, 

Seemed to be sinking down to infinite depths 
in the darkness, 

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sink¬ 
ing and sinking; 

Then through those realms of shade, in multi¬ 
plied reverberations, 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the 
hush that succeeded, 

Whispered a geutle voice, in accents tender 
and saintlike, 

“ Gabriel! O my beloved ! ” and died away 
into silence. 

Then he beheld in a dream, once more the 
home of his childhood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers 
among them, 

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and 
walking under their shadow, 

As in the days of their youth, Evangeline 
rose in his vision. 


Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he 
lifted his eyelids, 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline 
knelt at his bedside. 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the 
accents muttered, 

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed 
what his tongue would have spoken. 

Vainly he strove to rise, and Evangeline, 
kneeling beside him, 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her 
bosom. 

; Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it sud¬ 
denly sauk into darkness, 

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of 
wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, 
and the sorrow, 

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatis¬ 
fied longing, 

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish 
of patience; 

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head 
to her bosom, 

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured 
“ Father, I thank thee! ” 


RESIGNATION. 

The tender sympathy, deep pathos, and lofty faith breathing through this exquisite poem, 
are quite characteristic of the sweet and noble singer who wrote it. It has the highest of all 
merit —it is a poem of the heart. 


T HERE is no flock, however watched and 
But one dead lamb is there! [tended, 
There is no fireside howsoe’er defended, 
But has one vacant chair! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying ; 

And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, 

But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; 
Amid these earthly damps 


What seem to us but sad, funeral tapers 
May be heaven’s distant lamps. 

There is no death! What seems so is transition 
This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead—the child of our affection— 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion, 
By guardian angels led, 

Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, 
She lives whom we call dead. 





HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


29 


Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
The bond which nature gives, [spoken, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though un- 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child; 


But a fair maiden, in her father’s mansion, 
Clothed with celestial grace; 

And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, [ocean, 

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the 
That cannot be at rest— 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
We may not wholly stay; 

By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 


A PSALM OP LIFE. 


The fame of this poem is, perhaps, not surpassed by any other in the English language, 
and all on account of its practical sense, homely wisdom, easy versification, and high 
ideal held up to youth. 

T ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream ! 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem.’ 


Life is real! life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal! 

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,” 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 

But to act, that each to-morrow, 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 


Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife! 

Trust no future, howe’ver pleasant! 

Let the dead past bury its dead ! 
Act—act in the living present! 
Heart within, and God o’erhead. 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time : 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 


LIVES OF SCHOLARS 


W HAT a strange picture a university 
presents to the imagination. The 
lives of scholars in their cloistered 
stillness ;—literary men of retired habits, and 
professors who study sixteen hours a day, and 
never see the world but on a Sunday. Nature 


has, no doubt, for some wise purpose, placed 
in their hearts this love of literary labour 
and seclusion. Otherwise, who would feed 
the undying lamp of thought? But for such 
men as these, a blast of wind through the 
chinks and crannies of this old world, or the 








30 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


flapping of a conqueror’s banner, would blow 
it out for ever. The light of the soul is easily 
extinguished. 

And whenever I reflect upon these things 
I become aware of the great importance, in 
a nation’s history, of the individual fame 
of scholars and literary men. I fear, that 
it is far greater than the world is willing 
to acknowledge; or, perhaps, I should say, 
than the world has thought of acknowledging. 
Blot out from England’s history the names of 
Chaucer, Shakspeare, Spenser, and Milton 
only, and how much of her glory would you 
blot out with them! Take from Italy such 
names as Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Michel 
Angelo, and Raphael, and how much would 
still be wanting to the completeness of her 
glory! How would the history of Spain look 
if the leaves were torn out, on which are 
written the names of Cervantes, Lope de Vega, 
and Calderon! What would be the fame of 
Portugal, without her Camoens; of France, 
without her Racine, and Rabelais, and Vol¬ 
taire ; or Germany, without her Martin Luther, 
her Goethe, and Schiller! 

Nay, what were the nations of old, without 
their philosophers, poets,and historians? Tell 
me, do not these mem in all ages and in all 
places, emblazon with bright colors the arm¬ 
orial bearings of their country ? Yes, and far 
more than this; for in all ages and all places 


they give humanity assurance of its greatness; 
and say, Call not this time or people wholly 
barbarous; for thus much, even then and 
there, could the human mind achieve 1 

But the boisterous world has hardly thought 
of acknowledging all this. Therein it has 
shown itself somewhat ungrateful. Else, 
whence the great reproach, the general scorn, 
the loud derision, with which, to take a 
familiar example, the monks of the middle 
ages are regard, d. That they slept their lives 
away is most untrue. For in an age when 
books were few—so few, so precious, that they 
were often chained to their oaken shelves with 
iron chains, like galley-slaves to their benches, 
these men, with their laborious hands, copied 
upon parchment all the lore and wisdom of 
the past, and transmitted it to us. 

Perhaps it is not too much to say, that, but 
for these monks, not one line of the classics 
would have reached our day. Surely, then, 
we can pardon something to those supersti¬ 
tious ages, perhaps even the mysticism of the 
scholastic philosophy, since, after all, we can 
find no harm in it, only the mistaking of the 
possible for the real, and the high aspirings 
of the human mind after a long-sought and 
unknown somewhat. I think the name of 
Martin Luther, the monk of Wittemberg, 
alone sufficient to redeem all monkhood from 
the reproach of laziness! 




William Cullen Bryant. 

Renowned Poet and Journalist. 



EARLY every poet who has become distinguished has given to 
the world verses or stanzas that have passed into proverbial 
expressions, and have become familiar to the reading public. 
Here is one from Bryant: 

“Truth crushed to earth shall rise again. 

The oternal years of God are hers : 

But error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshippers.” 


This is not the only passage from Mr. Bryant’s writings that has 
become famous, and many of his exquisite productions have gained 
universal popularity. The severest rules of taste and rhetoric can judge 
him without finding occasion for 
offense. Correct and chaste in expres¬ 
sion, yet never tame or cold, there is 
a genial glow in his writings, an 
elevation of thought and sentiment 
and a freedom from all bombast and 
straining for effect. 

Mr. Bryant was born in Cum- 
mington, Massachusetts, on the third 
day of November, 1794. At a very 
early age he gave indications of superior 


genius, 


and his father, an eminent 



physician, distinguished for erudition 
and taste, as well as for extensive and 
thorough knowledge of science, watched 
with deep interest the development of 
his faculties under the most careful and judicious instruction. At ten 
years of age he made very creditable translations from some of the Latin 
poets, which were printed in a newspaper at Northampton, and during the 
vehement controversies between the Federalists and Democrats, which 

31 




32 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


marked the period of Jefferson’s administration, he wrote “ The Embargo,’’ 
a political satire, which was printed in Boston in 1808. 

Tasso, when nine years of age, wrote some lines to his mother which 
have been praised. Cowley at ten finished his “ Tragical History of 
Pyramus and Thisbe;” Pope when twelve his “ Ode to Solitud'e;” and 
“ the wondrous boy Chatterton,” at the same age, some verses entitled “ A 
Hymn for Christmas Day; ” but none of these pieces are superior to that 
which gave a title to the volume of our precocious American. The satire 
was directed against President Jefferson and his party. The description 
of a caucus, in the following extract, shows that there has been little 
change in the character of such assemblies, and it will be confessed that 
the lines are remarkably spirited and graphic for so young an author ; 

“ Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom dispel, 

Chase Error’s mist, and break her magic spell; 

But vain the wish, for, hark ! the murmuring meed 
Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed ; 

Enter, and view the thronging concomrse there, 

Intent, with gaping mouth and stupid stare ; 

While, in the midst, their supple leader stands, 

Harangues aloud, and flourishes his hands; 

To adulation tunes his servile throat, 

And sues, successful, for each blockhead’s vote.” 

In tbe sixteenth year of his age Bryant entered an advanced class of 
Williams College, in which he soon became distinguished for his attain¬ 
ments generally, and especially for his proficiency in classical learning. 
He appears, however, to have had little taste for the drudgery of college 
life, and having obtained an honorable discharge from the faculty, he 
studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1815. He located at Great 
Barrington, Mass., where he was soon afterward married. 

When but little more than eighteen years of age he wrote his cele¬ 
brated poem of “ Thanatopsis,” which many readers have always consid¬ 
ered his best production. Very properly Bryant may be called the poet 
of nature, a term which has been applied to the English poet Wordsworth, 
but with no better reason than to William Cullen Bryant. This appre¬ 
ciation of the sublime and beautiful in nature, and this love for all 
outward charms of the external world, is seen in- nearly all of his produc¬ 
tions. For example, his grand “Forest Hymn” begins with these 
majestic lines: 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 88 

“ The groves were God’s first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 

And spread the roof above them—ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, 

Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down 
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences, 

Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 

And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless power, 

And inaccessible majesty.” 

Mr. Bryant removed to New York City in 1825, and became, in 1826, 
one of the editors of the “ Evening Post,” which he continued to edit 
with great ability till his death. A collection of his poems was published 
in 1832. He visited Europe in 1834 and returned in 1836, and in 1849 
travelled in Egypt and Syria. His letters from abroad, contributed to 
the “ Evening Post,” were collected into book form as “ Letters of a 
Traveller.” Subsequent to 1845 h e resided at Roslyn, on Long Island. 
As editor of the “ Evening Post ” he gave a high tone to that journal, 
opposed the extension of slavery, advocated every measure which 
thoughtful and wise men considered to be advantageous to the public 
welfare, never descended to abuse or villification of any rival or competi¬ 
tor, showed himself to be a gentleman of the most perfect type, and at 
the close of his long career had gained a fame which a distinguished 
statesman said he would rather have than that of any other living man. 
He died June 12, 1878. 

“ No poet,” says Griswold, “ has described with more fidelity the 
beauties of the creation, nor sung in nobler song the greatness of the 
Creator. He is the translator of the silent language of the universe to 
the world. His poetry is pervaded by a pure and genial philosophy, a 
solemn and religious tone, that influence the fancy, the understanding 
and the heart.” Says Professor Wilson, “All will agree with what 
Washington Irving has said of his friend—that his close observation of 
the phenomena of nature and the graphic felicity of his details, prevent 
his descriptions from becoming general and commonplace.” 

The writer of this heartfelt tribute to the genius of Bryant remem¬ 
bers seeing him at an advanced age. and was struck with his quiet dignity 
3 


34 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


and venerable appearance. It was on a Thanksgiving Day in Plymouth 
Church, Brooklyn, whose pastor was then at the height of his remarkable 
career. The November snow was flying outside, but the building was 
crowded to its utmost capacity. Mr. Bryant was unable to obtain a seat, 
but made his way to the gallery, where he stood during the service with 
his back to the wall, the “ observed of all observers.” His head was 
partially bald, his long locks rested on his broad shoulders, his beard was 
heavy and white, and with it all there was the fire of genius in his eye, 
and a benign expression of countenance indicating clearly the traits of 
the man. Very few men of letters in any country have been so highly 
and so deservedly honored, and American literature will never lose one of 
its richest charms, for which it is indebted to his graceful, vigorous pen. 


AMERICAN SKIES. 


T HE sunny Italy may boast 

The beauteous tints that flush her 
skies, 

And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise: 

I only know how fair they stand 
About my own beloved land. 

And they are fair: a charm is theirs, 

That earth—the proud, green earth—has 
not 


With all the hues, and forms, and airs, 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 

We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, 
And read of heaven’s eternal year. 

Oh! when, amid the throng of men, 

The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 
How willingly we turn us then, 

Away from this cold earth; 

And look into thy azure breast, 

For seats of innocence and rest. 


ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 


M ERRILY swinging on brier and reed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 

Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 

Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
Hear him call in his merry note : 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 

Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 

Sure there never was a bird so fine. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she, 

One weak chirp is her only note, 

Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Never was I afraid of man ; 

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. 

Chee, chee, chee. 






WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! 
There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house with a frolic about. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well; 
Gathering seed for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 

This new life is likely to be 

Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
Sober with work, and silent with care, 
OIF in his holiday garment laid, 

Half forgotten that merry air, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and nestlings lie. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes; the children are grown 
Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

When you can pipe that merry old strain 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 


THE LOVE I BEAR. 


A LEXIS calls me cruel; 

The rifted crags that hold 
The gathered ice of winter, 

He says, are not more cold : 
When even the very blossoms 
Around the fountain’s brim, 
And forest walks, can witness 
The love I bear to him. 

I would that I could utter 
My feelings without shame! 


And tell him how I love him, 
Nor wrong my virgin fame. 
Alas ! to seize the moment 
When heart inclines to heart, 
And press a suit with passion, 
Is not a woman’s part. 

If man comes not to gather 
The roses where they stand, 
They fade among their foliage ; 
They cannot seek his hand. 


THE HUNTER’S VISION. 


PON a rock that, high and sheer 
Rose from the mountain’s breast 
A weary hunter of the deer 
Had sat him down to rest, 

And bared to the soft summer air 
His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 

All dim in haze the mountains lay, 
With dimmer vales between ; 

And rivers glimmered on their way, 

By forests faintly seen ; 

While ever rose a murmuring sound, 
From brooks below and bees around. 

He listened, till he seemed to hear, 

A strain, so soft and low 


That whether in the mind or ear 
The listener scarce might know ; 

With such a tone, so sweet, so mild, 

The watching mother lulls her child. 

“ Thou weary huntsman,” thus it said, 

“ Thou faint with toil and heat, 

The pleasant land of rest is spread 
Before thy very feet, 

And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 
Are waiting there to welcome thee.” 

He looked, and ’twixt the earth and sky 
Amid the noontide haze, 

A shadowy region met his eye, 

And grew beneath his gaze, 

As if the vapors of the air 
Had gathered into shapes so fair. 








36 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 
Showed bright on rocky bank, 

And fountains welled beneath the bowers, 
Where deer and pheasant drank. 

He saw the glittering streams ; he heard 
The rustling bough and twittering bird. 
And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear, 
There lived and walked again ; 

And there was one who many a year 
Within her grave had lain. 

A fair young girl, the hamlet’s pride— 
His heart was breaking when she died. 


I Bounding, as was her wont, she came 
Right towards his resting place, 

And stretched her hand and called his name, 
With that sweet smiling face. 

Forward with fixed and eager eyes, 

The hunter leaned in act to rise: 

Forward he leaned—and headlong down 
Plunged from that craggy wall; 

He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown 
An instant, in his fall— 

| A frightful instant, and no more; 

I The dream and life at once were o’er. 


THANATOPSIS. 


T O him who, in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 
speaks 

A various language: for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When 
thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
Go forth under the open sky, and list 
To nature’s teachings, while from all around— 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— 
Comes a still voice—yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many 
tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth that nourished thee, shall 
claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements; 

To be a brother to the insensible rock, 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 
swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 
mould. 


Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone—nor coulds’t thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world—with 
kings. 

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 

The venerable woods; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 

That makes the meadows green ; and, poured 
round 

Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste— 

Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man! 

The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands. 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are 
there! 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone! 
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 






RALPH WALDO EMERSON, 















EUGENE FIEED. 














WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


37 


When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall 
come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long 
train 

Of ages glide away, the sons of men— 

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who 
goes 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles 
And- beauty of its innocent age cut off— 


1 Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side 
I By those who in their turn shall follow them 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 
soothed 

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 


SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. 


I BUCKLE to my slender side 
The pistol and the scimitar, 

And in my maiden flower and pride 
Am come to share the tasks of war. 
And yonder stands my fiery steed, 

That paws the ground and neighs to go, 
My charger of the Arab breed— 

I took him from the routed foe. 

My mirror is the mountain spring, 

At which 1 dress my ruffled hair; 

My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, 

And wash away the blood-stain there. 
Why should I guard from wind and sun 
This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled ? 

It was for one—oh, only one— 

I keep its bloom, and he is dead. 


But they who slew him—unaware 
Of coward murderers lurking nigh— 

And left him to the fowls of air, 

Are yet alive—and they must die. 

They slew him and my virgin years 

Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now. 

And many an Othman dame, in tears, 

Shall rue the Grecian maiden’s vow. 

I touched the lute in the better days, 

I led in dance the joyous band; 

Ah ! they may move to mirthful lays 
Whose hands can touch a lover’s hand. 

The march of hosts that haste to meet 
Seems gayer than the dance to me ; 

The lute’s sweet tones are not so sweet 
As the fierce shout of victory. 


THE BATTLEFIELD. 


An English critic, referring to the stanza beginning—“ Truth crushed to earth shall rise 
again,”—said : “ Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza which 
will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in the English language. 
The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would 
be like a row of pearls, each beyond a king’s ransom.” 


O NCE this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave,— 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 


Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 

And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; 
Men start not at the battle-cry : 

Oh, be it never heard again! 







38 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


Soon rested those who fought; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 

Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare! lingering long 
Through weary day and w’eary year; 

A wild and inany-weaponed throng 

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 

And blench not at thy chosen lot; 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown—yet faint thou not, 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn : 


For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 

The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the duet, 

When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 

Like those who fell in battle her«\ 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peeled 
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave. 


TO A WATERFOWL. 


W HITHER, ’midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last 
steps of day, 

Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seekst thou the plashing brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— 
The desert and illimitable air— 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 


All day thy wings have fanned, 

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
Andscream among thy fellows; reedsshall bend. 
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless skv thy certain 
flight, 

In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 


THE ARCTIC LOVER. 


G ONE is the long, long winter night; 

Look, my beloved one ; [light, 

Hew glorious through its depth of 
Rolls the majestic sun! 

The willows waked from winter’s depth, 

Give out a fragrance like thy breath— 

The summer is begun ! 


Ay, ’tis the long bright summer day ; 

Hark to the mighty crash ! 

The loosened ice-ridge breaks away— 
The smitten waters flash. 

Seaward the glittering mountain rides, 
While down its green translucent sides, 
The foamy torrents dash, 







WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


39 


See, love, ray boat is moored for thee, 
By ocean’s weedy floor— 

The petrel does not skim the sea 
More swiftly than ray oar. 

We’ll go, where, on the rocky isles, 

Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles 
Beside the pebbly shore. 

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, 
With wind-flowers frail and fair, 
While I, upon his isle of snows, 

Seek and defy the bear, 

Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 
This arm his savage strength shall tame. 
And drag him from his lair. 


O H, fairest of the rural maids! 

Thy birth was in the forest shades; 
Green boughs and glimpses of the sky 
Were all that met thy infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 

And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks : 


C OME, let us plant the apple-tree. 

Cleave the tough greensward with the 
spade; 

Wide let its hollow bed be made; 

There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 

And press it o’er them tenderly, 

As round the tender infant’s feet 
We softly fold the cradle-sheet; 

So plant we the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 

Buds which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 

Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast 
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; 

We plant, upon the sunny lea, 

A shadow for the noontide hour, 

A shelter from the summer’s shower, 

When we plant the apple-tree. 


When crimson sky and flamy cloud 
Bespeak the summer o’er, 

And the dead valleys wear a shroud 
Of snows that melt no more. 

I’ll build of ice thy winter home, 

With glistening walls and glassy dome, 
And spread with skins the floor. 

The white fox by thy couch shall play; 

And, from the frozen skies, 

The meteors of a mimic day 
Shall flash upon thine eyes, 

And I—for such thy vow—meanwhile 
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, 
Ti 1 that long midnight flies. 


RURAL MAIDS. 

Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thiue eyes are springs in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen, 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unpressed. 
Are not more sinless than thy breast; 
The holy peace that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes is there. 


THE APPLE-TREE. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the May-wind’s restless wings, 
When, from the orchard row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors; 

A world of blossoms for the bee, 
Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room, 

For the glad infant sprigs of bloom 
We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Fruits that shall swell in merry June, 

And redden in the August noon, 

And drop, when gentle airs come by 
That fan the blue September sky, 

While children come, with cries of glee, 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass, 

At the foot of the apple-tree. 


FAIREST OF THE 


THE PLANTING OF 







40 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds and our 11 'g of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 

Where men shall wonder at the view, 
And ask in what lair groves they grew ; 

And sojourners beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood’s careless day 
And long, long hours of summer play, 

In the shade of the apple-tree. 

Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 

A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 

And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 


The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 

The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh, 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 

“ Who planted this old apple-tree ? ” 
j The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say; 

And, gazing on its mossy stem, 

The gray-haired man shall answer them: 

“ A poet of the land was he, 

Born in the rude but good old times ; 

’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes 
On planting the apple-tree.” 


A SCENE ON 

C OOL shades and dews are round my way, 
And silence of the early day ; 

Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, 
Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, 
Uurippled, save by drops that fall 
From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; 
And o’er the clear, still waters swells 
The music of the Sabbath bells. 

All, save this little nook of land 
Circled with trees, on which I stand; 

All, save that line of hills which lie 
Suspended in the mimic sky— 

Seems a blue void, above, below, 

Through which the white clouds come and go, 
And from the green world’s farthest steep 
I gaze into the airy deep. 


THE HUDSON. 

j Loveliest of lovely things are they, 

On earth, that soonest pass away. 

The rose that lives its little hour 
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 
Even love, long tried and cherished long, 
Becomes more tender and more strong, 
At thought of that insatiate grave 
From which its yearnings cannot save. 

River ! in this still hour thou hast 
Too much of heaven on earth to last; 
Nor long may thy still waters lie, 

An image of the glorious sky. 

Thy fate and mine are not repose, 

And ere another evening close, 

Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, 

And I to seek the crowd of men. 


THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 


T HE melancholy days are come, the sad¬ 
dest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 
and meadows brown and sere, 
Heap’d in the hollows of the grove, the 
wither’d leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the 
rabbit’s tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from 
the shrub the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through 
all the gloomy day. 


Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers 
that lately sprung and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous 
sisterhood ? 

Alas! they are all in their graves, the gentle 
race of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair 
and good of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie; but the 
cold November rain 

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the 
lovely ones again. 








WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


41 


The wind-flower and the violet, they perished 
long ago, 

And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid 
the summer glow. 

But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster 
in the wood, 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in 
autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, 
as falls the plague on men, 

Ana the brightness of their smile was gone 
from upland, glade and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as 
still such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 
winter home 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
though all the trees are still, 


And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of 
the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose 
fragrance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the 
stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful 
beauty died, 

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded 
by my side: 

In the cold moist earth we laid her when the 
forest cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should have a 
life so brief; 

Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that 
young friend of ours 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with 
the flowers. 


TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 


T HOU blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven’s own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night; 

Thou earnest not when violets lean 
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, 

When woods are bare and birds are flown, 


And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue—blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean Avail. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming with my heart, 

May look to heaven as I depart. 


THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 


W HEN spring to Avoods and Avastes around, 
Brought bloom and joy again ; 

The murdered traveler’s bones Avere 
Far down a narrow glen. [found, 

The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
Her tassels in the sky; 

And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 

The red bird warbled, as he Avrought 
His hanging nest o’erhead. 

And fearless, near the fatal spot, 

Her young the partridge led. 


But there Avas weeping far away, 

And gentle eyes, for him, 

With Avatching many an anxious day, 
Were sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, Avho loved him so, 
The fearful death he met, 

When shouting o’er the desert snow, 
Unarmed and hard beset; 

Nor hoAV, when round the frosty pole 
The northern daAvn was red, 

The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead. 











42 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
They dressed the hasty bier, 

And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 
Within his distant home; 


j And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
For joy that he had come. 

Long, long they looked—but never spied 
His welcome step again. 

Nor knew the fearful death he died 
Far down that narrow glen. 


THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 


The story of the African Chief related in this ballad is well known. The chief was a 
warrior of majestic stature, brother of the king of the Solima nation. He had been 
taken in battle and was brought in chains for sale to the Rio Pongas, where he was exhibited 
in the market-place, his ankles still adorned with the massive rings of gold which he wore 
when captured. The refusal of his captor to listen to his offers of ransom drove him mad. 


C HAINED in the market-place he stood, 
A man of giant frame, 

Amid the gathering multitude 
That shrunk to hear his name— 

All stern of look and strong of limb 
His dark eye on the ground:— 

And silently they gazed on him, 

As on a lion bound. 

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, 

He was a captive now, 

Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 

Was written on his brow. 

The scars his dark broad bosom wore, 

Showed warrior true and brave ; 

A prince among his tribe before, 

He could not be a slave. 

Then to his conqueror he spake— 

“ My brother is a king : 

Undo this necklace from my neck, 

And take this bracelet ring, 

And send me where my brother reigns, 

And I will fill thy hands 
With store of ivory from the plains, 

And gold-dust from the sands.” 

“Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 
Will I unbind thy chain; 

That bloody hand shall never hold 
The battle-spear again. 

A price thy nation never gave 
Shall yet be paid for thee; 

For thou shalt be the Christian’s slave, 

In lands beyond the sea.” 


Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 
To shred his locks away ; 

And one by one, each heavy braid 
Before the victor lay. 

Thick were the platted locks, and long, 
And closely hidden there 

Shone many a wedge of gold among 
The dark and crisped hair. 

“ Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 
Long kept for sorest need : 

Take it—thou askest sums untold. 

And say that I am freed. 

Take it—my wife, the long, long day, 
Weeps by the cocoa-tree, 

And my young children leave their play, 
And ask in vain for me.” 

“ I take thy gold—but I have made 
Thy fetters fast and strong, 

Aud ween that, by the cocoa shade 
Thy wife will wait thee long.” 

Strong was the agony that shook 
The captive’s frame to hear, 

And the proud meaning of his look 
Was changed to mortal fear. 

His heart was broken—crazed his brain ; 
At once his eye grew wild ; 

He struggled fiercely with his chain, 
Whispered, and wept, and smiled ; 

Yet wore not long those fatal bands, 

And once, at shut of day, 

They drew him forth upon the sands, 

The foul hyena’s prey. 





WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


43 


A CORN-HUSKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA. 


In his work entitled, “ The Letters of a Traveler,” we find a passage that well illustrates 
Mr. Bryant’s descriptive powers and his habit of close observation. He describes a corn- 
husking, in which the rollicking humor, grotesque songs and speeches of the colored peo¬ 
ple afforded him much amusement. The company at a husking was usually divided into 
two parties, and a prize was offered to the party that finished husking its pile of corn 
before its competitor. Mr. Byant thus describes one of these novel husking-bees : 


B UT you must hear of the corn-shucking. 
The one at which I was present was 
given on purpose that I might witness 
the humors of the Carolina negroes. A huge 
fire of light-wood was made near the corn- 
house. Light-wood is the wood of the long¬ 
leaved pine, and is so called, not because it is 
light, for it is almost the heaviest wood in the 
world, but because it gives more light than 
any other fuel. 

The light wood-fire was made, and the 
negroes dropped in from the neighboring 
plantations, singing as they came. The 
driver of the plantation, a colored man, 
brought out baskets of corn in the husk, and 
piled it in a heap; and the negroes began to 
strip the husks from the ears, singing with 
great glee as they worked, keeping time to the 
music, and now and then throwing in a joke 
and an extravagant burst of laughter. The 
songs were generally of a comic character; 
but one of them was set to a singularly wild 
and plaintive air, which some of our musicians 
would do well to reduce to notation. These 
are the words: 

Johnny come down de hollow. 

Oh hollow! 

Johnny come down de hollow. 

Oh hollow! 

De nigger-trader got me. 

Oh hollow! 

De speculator bought me. 

Oh hollow! 

I’m sold for silver dollars. 

Oh hollow ! 

Boys, go catch the pony. 

Oh hollow ! 

Bring him round the corner. 

Oh hollow ! 

I’m going away to Georgia. 

Qh hollow ! 


Boys, good-by forever! 

Oh hollow! 

The song of “ Jenny gone away ” was also 
given, and another, called the monkey-song, 
probably of African origin, in which the prin¬ 
cipal singer personated a monkey, with all 
sorts of gesticulations, and the other negroes 
bore part in the chorus, “ Dan, dan, who’s the 
dandy?” One of the songs commonly sung 
on these occasions represents the various ani¬ 
mals of the woods as belonging to some pro¬ 
fession or trade. For example— 

De cooter is de boatman — 

The cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert 
boatman he is. 

De cooter is de boatman. 

John John Crow. 

De red-bird de soger. 

John John Crow. 

De mocking-bird de lawyer. 

John John Crow. 

De alligator sawyer. 

John John Crow. 

The alligator’s back is furnished with a 
toothed ridge, like the edge of a saw, which 
explains the last line. 

When the work of the evening was over the 
negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One 
of them took his place as musician, whistling, 
and beating time with two sticks upon the 
floor. Several of the men came forward and 
executed various dances, capering, prancing, 
and drumming with heel and toe upon the 
floor, with astonishing agility and persever¬ 
ance, though all of them had performed their 
daily tasks and had worked all the evening, 
and some had walked from four to seven 
miles to attend the corn-shucking. 

From the dances a transition was made to a 
moek military parade, a sort of burlesque of 
pur military trainings, in which the words of 





44 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


command and the evolutions were extremely 
ludicrous. It became necessary for the com¬ 
mander to make a speech, and confessing his 
incapacity for public speaking, he called upon 
a huge black man named Toby to address the 
company in his stead. Toby, a man of power¬ 
ful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented 
with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto 
stood leaning against the wall, looking upon 
the frolic with an air of superiority. He con¬ 
sented, came forward, demanded a bit of paper 
to hold in his hand, and harangued the sol¬ 
diery. 


It was evident that Toby had listened to 
stump-speeches in his day. He spoke of “ de 
majority of Sous Carolina,” “ de interests of 
de state,” “ de honor of ole Ba’nwell district,” 
and these phrases he connected by various 
expletives, and sounds of which we could 
make nothing. At length he began to falter, 
when the captain with admirable presence of 
mind came to his relief, and interrupted and 
closed the harangue with an hurrah from the 
company. Toby was allowed by all the spec¬ 
tators, black and white, to have made an 
excellent speech. 


SONG OF MARION’S MEN. 


O UR band is few, but true and tried, 
Our leader frank and bold ; 

The British soldier trembles 
When Marion’s name is told, 

Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree; 

We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea: 

We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 

Its safe and silent islands 
Within the dark morass. 

Woe to the English soldiery 
That little dread us near! 

On them shall light at midnight 
A strange and sudden fear; 

When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 

And they who stand to face us 
Are beat to earth again; 

And they who fly in terror, deem 
A mighty host behind, 

And hear the tramp of thousands 
Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 
From danger and from toil: 

We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle’s spoil. 

The woodlands ring with laugh and shout 
As if a hunt were up, 


And woodland flowers are gathered 
To crown the soldier’s cup. 

With merry songs we mock the wind 
That in the pine-top grieves 

And slumber long and sweetly 
On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads— 

The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 

’Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
Across the moonlight plain ; 

’Tis life to feel the night-wind 
That lifts his tossing mane. 

A moment in the British camp— 

A moment—and away ! 

Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
Grave men with hoary hairs ; 

Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 

And lovely ladies greet our band 
With kindliest welcoming, 

With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 

For them we wear these trusty arms 
And lay them down no more 

Till we have driven the Briton, 

Forever, from our shore. 









CHARLES DICKENS. 




































Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

Poet and Philosopher 


RAINS rule tlie world. Thought is king. Napoleon said he 
always fought for an idea. Ambition, selfishness, greed, 
visionary aims—how all these shrivel like tow in the fire when 
thought comes, when ideas march to the front. The world 
follows the man who thinks. 

It has been charged sometimes that Emerson thought ob¬ 
scurely, in a mystical way, that his thoughts were in the depths, but if 
so, this was natural to him and not intentional. There are men who see 
very clearly what others can only see dimly. Emerson’s view of the 
matter is expressed in his four lines on the poet: 

To clothe the fiery thought 
In simple words succeeds, 

For still the craft of genius is 
To mask a king in weeds. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston in 1803. He was edu¬ 
cated at Harvard College, where he entered in 1817 and graduated in 
1821. He did not show himself to be what college men call a “dig.” 
He was a bookworm, but his taste ran to literature rather than to the 
hum-drum text books of the regular college course. He is said to have 
spent much of his time in the library and excelled all others in his 
knowledge of general literature. 

Having spent a winter in Florida on account of his health, in 1829 
he was ordained to the Second Unitarian Church of Boston as colleague 
pastor, but resigned this position in 1832, because he could not accept the 
views of the church in regard to the Lord’s Supper. He then sailed for 
Europe and returned in 1833- He very soon began his career as a 
lecturer, choosing sometimes very unexpected subjects, as well as those 
that were very dignified and cultured, such as “ Nature,” “ Milton,” 
“ Human Culture,” and such a simple topic as “ Water.” A volume of 
“Essays,” published in 1841, attracted wide attention. A new man, a 

45 




46 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


man of daring thought, of subtle insight, had appeared, and it was like 
the coming of a conqueror. 

A number of New England Transcendentalists began the publica¬ 
tion of an organ in 1840, and to this Mr. Emerson became a contributor, 
subsequently assuming the editorship which he held until 1844. During 
this year a second volume of “ Essays ” made its appearance. It was 
characterized by the same striking peculiarities of thought and expression, 
fully sustaining his previous reputation and greatly enlarging the circle 
of his readers. Especially upon the young scholastic mind of the country 
did he make a profound impression. By this time Mr. Emerson had 
begun to think in verse, and although no one would have guessed he had 
any poetical gifts, he surprised the public by publishing a volume of 
poems in 1846, which were characterized by his mental peculiarities, and 
from that time to this have been considered as possessing extraordinary 
merit. Even in the most delicate fancies he has shown himself to be a 
master of his art. 

Perhaps the most famous of his prose works, one on which his 
reputation will securely rest, is “ Representative Men,” published in 1850. 
It is only a small volume, but may be compared to his description of the 
first battle of the Revolution, in which “ the embattled farmers stood and 
fired the shot heard round the world.” His little volume resounded 
through both hemispheres. The essays in this volume consist of a series 
of characters, or mental portraits, each designed to represent a certain 
class ; Plato, or the Philosopher; Swedenborg, or the Mystic ; Montaigne ? 
or the Skeptic; Shakespeare, or the Poet; Napoleon, or the Man of the 
World ; Goethe, or the Writer. 

Of course, the judgment that readers form respecting Mr. Emerson’s 
writings must depend very largely upon their own point of view, and 
also largely upon their mental cultivation and powers of discernment. 
To many he is like the title of one of his most renowned poems—the 
Sphinx. They look at him without understanding him. They listen, 
but he has no voice for them. He is dark, distant, cold, wanting in all 
human elements, and utterly incomprehensible. In short, a man to 
understand Emerson must himself be an Emerson, just as it is true that 
any one to appreciate a poet must himself possess, in some degree at least, 
the poetic faculty. It is remarkable, however, that Emerson with his 
high intellectuality has gained so wide a circle of readers. 

In 1856 Mr. Emerson published “ English Traits.” It is one of his 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


47 


most popular and attractive books, although some statements should be 
received with charity. Mr. Emerson has undoubtedly exerted a very wide 
influence upon the thinkers and writers of our time. He has been to them 
a kind of oracle, and while it was impossible to imitate his style, his very 
personality, one might almost say, has entered into a considerable part of 
American literature, especially that of New England authors. It was at 
Concord that the poet and philosopher gathered around him congenial 
spirits, making his home a shrine sacred in the thought of kindred spirits. 
In this city he continued to live until his death occurred, April 27th, 1882, 
in the 78th year of his age. 

It is hardly 'worth while to speak of some of the singular notions 
Mr. Emerson imbibed at one time or another, and which found expression 
in the “ Brook Farm Community.” This was for a time a hobby with 
him, and he appeared to think that he was launching a scheme that 
would revolutionize society and lift it up to an ideal state. Many emi¬ 
nent men were associated with him in this enterprise, the history of 
which is not by any means brilliant. In fact, the whole project was a 
failure, and after an experience of five years the enterprise was given up 
and the houses were accidentally destroyed by fire. It was found that 
the principle of co-operation was not selfish enough to make a success of 
the undertaking; every man can work better for himself than he can for 
others. 

Mr. Emerson is distinguished for originality as well as for subtlety 
of intellect. One cannot, however, help suspecting that in his love for 
originality and his anxiety to shake himself wholly free from the tram¬ 
mels of the past, he is sometimes in danger of running into errors in the 
opposite direction, from which his good sense and rare sagacity might 
otherwise have preserved him. “As a writer,” observes an accomplished 
critic, “ Mr. Emerson is distinguished for a singular union of poetic 
imagination with practical acuteness. The brilliant idealist is not easy 
to be deceived in matters pertaining to the ordinary course of human 
affairs. His observations on society, on manners, on character, on insti¬ 
tutions, are stamped with rare sagacity. His style is in the nicest 
harmony with the character of his thought. It is condensed almost to 
abruptness. Occasionally he purchases compression at the expense of 
clearness.” 

His last volume of poems, “ May Day and Other Pieces,” was 
published in 1867. His other works are “ Miscellanies,” published in 


48 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


1849, containing a selection from Lis lectures and addresses, including 
the famous essay on “ Nature,” and other essays entitled, “ The Conduct 
of Life,” “ Society and Solitude,” and “ Letters and Social Aims.’’ In all 
of his writings Mr. Emerson shows a very high order of mind, a strong 
epigrammatic style, and illustrates the saying of Richelieu that the “ pen 
is mightier than the sword.” He is “ a seeker with no Past at his back,” 
but “ acts iu the living Present: ’’ 

Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen, 

To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between; 

Future or Past no richer secret folds, 

O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds. 

He evidently aims to break the moulds of popular beliefs, and to get 
at the heart of the matter, to look around and within with the fresh vision 
of “ a first man,” and like Adam in the garden to put his owu names 
upon what he sees. He has none of the ill humor which denies because 
others affirm; he simply takes leave to look for himself. While there¬ 
fore he continually sees and represents things in singular lights, and 
sometimes inverts them, so that it would seem to be an inevitable conclu¬ 
sion that either he is crazy or we, on the other hand he regenerates our 
faith, by giving us an original testimony to great truths. Thus, his 
essay on “ The Over-Soul ” is as orthodox as St. Paul. 

Whatever appearances there may be to the contrary, Mr. Emerson is 
never destructive. He is a builder, a born and anointed poet. His 
demand is Truth. He must stand face to face with it. Insatiable as is 
his craving for truth, he is always orderly and serene. He gives no sign 
that any deterring considerations have ever occurred to him. Whatever 
suggestions of fear or policy there may be, they are less than cobwebs to 
him. 

Mr. Emerson is never commonplace. Hence we infer that he was a 
genuine worker. Every thing is wrought out by his own thought. He 
must, in his listless moments, have repined at the stubbornness of his gen¬ 
ius, which could bear to be mute, but could not declaim, nor tolerate in 
him any attempt at “ fine writing.” There is a very common talent, pass¬ 
ing for a great deal more than it is worth—the sole talent of many quite 
distinguished writers—which lies in the putting of words together so fitly 
and musically that they seem to sing a new truth, when it is “ an old song,” 
with no variations. Mr. Emerson is utterly deficient in this power. He 
was sublimely original. 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


49 


EACH IN ALL. 


L ITTLE thinks in the field yon red-cloaked 
clown 

Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 
And the heifer that lows in the upland farm 
Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 

The sexton tolling his bell at noon 
Dreams not the great Napoleon 
Stops his horse, and lists with delight, 

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; 

Nor knowest thou what argument 

Thy life to thy neighbor’s creed hath lent, 

All are needed by each one; 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven, 
Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 

I brought him home in his nest at even— 

He sings the song, but it pleases not now, 
For I did not bring home the river and sky, 
He sang to my ear, these sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore— 

The bubbles of the latest wave 
Fresh peals to their enamel gave, 

And the bellowing of the savage sea 
Greeted their safe escape to me. 

I wiped away the weeds and foam, 

I fetched my sea-born treasures home, 

But the poor, uusightly, noisome things 


Had left their beauty on the shore, 

With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. 
Nor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair, 

Their concord is beyond compare. 

The lover watched his graceful maid 
As mid the virgin train she strayed 
Nor knew her beauty’s best attire 
Was woven still by that snow-white auire. 

At last, she came to his hermitage, 

Like the bird from the woodlands to tne cagt— 
The gay enchantment was undone— 

A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then, I said, “ I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat; 

I leave it behind with the games of youth ; ” 

-As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 
Running over the hair-cap burs: 

I inhaled the violet’s breath : 

Around me stood the oaks and firs : 
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground. 
Over me soared the eternal sky 
Full of light and of deity ; 

Again I saw—again I heard, 

The rolling river, the morning bird : 

Beauty through my seuses stole— 

| I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 


‘GOOD BYE, PROUD WORLD!” 


G OOD-BYE, proud world! I’m going 
home, 

Thou art not my friend; I am not 
thine; 

Too long through weary crowds I roam— 

A river ark on the ocean brine, 

Too long I am tossed like driven foam, 

But now, proud world, I’m going home. 

Good-bye to Flattery’s fawning face; 

To Grandeur with his wise grimace : 

To upstart Wealth s averted eye: 

To supple office, low and high ; 

To crowded halls, to court and street, 

To frozen hearts, and hasting feet. 

To those who go, and those who come— 
Good-bye, proud world, I’m going home. 

4 


I go to seek my own hearth-stone 
Bosomed in yon green hills alone; 

A secret lodge in a pleasant laud, 

Whose groves the frolic fairies planned, 
Where arches green, the livelong day 
Echo the blackbird’s roundelay, 

And evil men have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 

I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
And when I am stretched beneath the pines 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 

I laugh at the lore and pride of man, 

At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 
For what are they all in their high conceit, 
When man in the bush with God may meet? 






50 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 


F INE humble-bee ! fine humble-bee? 
Where thou art is clime for me, 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek— 

I will follow thee alone, 

Thou animated torrid zone! 

Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer, 

Let me chase thy waving lines, 

Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 

Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Flower-bells, 

Honeyed cells— 

These the tents 
Which he frequents. 

Insect lover of the sun, 

Joy of thy dominion ! 

Sailor of the atmosphere, 

Swimmer through the waves of air, 
Voyager of light and noon, 

Epicurean of June, 

Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum— 

All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind in May days, 

With a net of shining haze, 

Silvers the horizon wall, 

And with softness touching all, 

Tints the human countenance 
With a color of romance, 

And infusing subtle heats 
Turns the sod to violets— 


Thou in sunny solitudes, 

Rover of the underwoods, 

The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer’s petted cmne, 

Sweet to me thy drowsy tune, 

Telling of countless sunny hums, 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers, 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wilderness found, 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught uusavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen, 

But violets, and bilberry bells, 

Maple sap, and daffodels, 

Clover, catchfly, adder’s tongue, 

And brier-roses dwelt among. 

All beside was unknown waste, 

All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher, 

Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 

Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
When the fierce north-wester blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast— 
Thou already slumberest deep, 

Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 

I Want and woe which torture us, 

I Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 


THE RHODORA. 

LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? 


I N May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp 
nook, 

To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; 
The purple petals fallen in the pool 

Make the black waters with their beauty 

gay; 

Young Raphael might covet such a school; 
The lively show beguiled me from my way. 


Rhodora! if the sage ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for 
seeing, 

Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why, thou wert there, O, rival of the rose 
I never thought to ask, I never knew, 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 
[ The selfsame Power that brought me there, 
brought you. 






RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


51 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


A NNOUNCED by all trumpets of the sky 
Arrives the snow, and driving o’er the 
fields, 

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemaids sit 
Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind’s masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artifices 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 


Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
Fill up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 

And when his hours are numbered, and the 
world 

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work, 
The frolic architect of the snow. 


THE 

'HE Sphinx is drowsy, 

Her wings are furled, 

Her ear is heavy, 

She broods on the world. 

“ Who’ll tell me my secret 
The ages have kept! 

I awaited the seer 

While they slumbered and slept, 

“ The fate of the manchild— 

The meaning of man— 

Known fruit of the unknown, 
Daedalian plan. 

Out of sleeping a w r aking, 

Out of waking a sleep, 

Life death overtaking, 

Deep underneath deep. 

“ Erect as a sunbeam 

Upspringeth the palm; 

The elephant browses 
Undaunted and calm; 

In beautiful motion 

The thrush plies his wings, 

Kind leaves of his covert! 

Your, silence he sings. 

“ The waves unashamed 
In difference sweet, 

Play glad with the breezes, 

Old playfellows meet. 


SPHINX. 

The journeying atoms, 
Primordial wholes, 

Firmly draw, firmly drive. 

By their animate poles. 

“Sea, earth, air, sound, silence, 
Plant, quadruped, bird, 

By one music enchanted, 

One deity stirred, 

Each the other adorning, 
Accompany still, 

Night veileth the morning, 

The vapor the hill. 

“ The babe, by its mother, 

Lies bathed in joy, 

Glide its hours uncounted, 

The sun is its toy ; 

Shines the peace of all being 
Without cloud in its eyes, 
And the sun of the world 
In soft minature lies. 

“ But man crouches and blushes, 
Absconds and conceals; 

He creepeth and peepeth, 

He palters and steals; 
Infirm, melancholy, 

Jealous glancing around, 

An oaf, an accomplice, 

He poisons the ground. 






52 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


“ Outspoke the great mother 
Beholding his fear ;— 

At the sound of her accents 
Cold shuddered the sphere;— 
Who has drugged my boy’s cup, 
Who has mixed my boy’s bread? 
Who with sadness and madness, 

Has turned the manchild’s head ! ” 

I heard a poet answer, 

Aloud and cheerfully, 

« Say on, sweet Sphinx!—thy dirges 
Are pleasant songs to me. 

Deep love lieth under 
These pictures of time, 

They fade in the light of 
Their meaning sublime, 

“The fiend that man harries, 

Is love of the Best, 

Yawns the Pit of the Dragon 
Lit by rays from the Blest; 

The Lethe of Nature 
Can’t trance him again, 

Whose soul sees the Perfect 
Which his eyes seek in vain. 

“ Profounder, profounder 
Man’s spirit must dive: 

To his aye-rolling orbit 
No goal will arrive. 

The heavens that now draw him 
With sweetness untold, 

Once found—for new heavens 
He spurneth the old. 

“ Pride ruined the angels, 

Their shame them restores. 

And the joy that is sweetest 
Lurks in stings of remorse. 

Have I a lover 

Who is noble and free— 


I would he were nobler 
Than to love me. 

“ Eterne alternation 

Now follows, now flies, 

And under pain, pleasure— 

Under pleasure, pain lies. 

Love works at the centre 
Heart heaving always, 

Forth speed the strong pulses 
To the borders of day. 

“ Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits! 
Thy sight is growing blear ; 
Hemlock and vitrol for the Sphinx 
Her muddy eyes to clear.” 

The old Sphinx bit her thick lip — 
Said “ Who taught thee me to name 
Manchild ! I am thy spirit; 

Of thine eye I am eyebeam. 

“ Thou art the unanswered question :— 
Couldst see thy proper eye, 

Alway it asketh, asketh, 

And each answer is a lie. 

So take thy quest through nature, 

It through thousand natures ply, 
Ask on, thou clothed eternity, 

Time is the false reply.” 

Uprose the merry Sphinx, 

And crouched no more in stone, 
She hopped into the baby’s eyes, 

She hopped into the moon, 

She spired into a yellow flame, 

She flowered in blossoms red, 

She flowered into a foaming wave, 
She stood Monadnoc’s head. 

Through a thousand voices 
Spoke the universal dame, 

“ Who telleth one of my meanings 
Is master of all I am.” 


TO EVA. 


O H, fair and stately maid, whose eyes | 
Were kindled in the upper skies 
At the same torch that lighted mine; j 
For so I must interpret still 
Thy sweet dominion o’er my will, 

A sympathy divine. 


Ah. let me blameless gaze upon 
Features that seem at heart my own ; 

Nor fear those watchful sentinels, 

Who charm the more their glance forbids, 
Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids, 
With fire that draws while it repels. 

















CHAS-A DANA 


PHILLIPS BROOKS 


" A,i/ °"C * AWF0R0 


,hardWat 60 nGu.de* 










RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


53 


THE FORE-RUNNERS. 


L ONG I followed happy guides: 

I could never reach their sides. 
Their step is forth and, ere the day, 
Breaks up their leaguer and away. 

Keen my sense, my heart was young, 
Right good will my sinews strung, 

But no speed of mine avails 
To hunt upon their shining trails. 

On and away, their hasting feet 
Make the morning proud and sweet. 

Flowers they strew, I catch the scent, 

Or tone of silver instrument 
Leaves on the wind melodious trace, 

Yet could never see their face. 

On eastern hills I see their smokes 
Mixed with mist by distant lochs. 

I met many travellers 
Who the road had surely kept, 

They saw not my fine revellers, 

These had crossed them while they slept. 


Some had heard their fair report, 

In the country or the court. 

Fleetest couriers alive 
Never yet could once arrive, 

As they went or they returned. 

At the house where these sojourned. 
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken. 
Though they are not overtaken : 

In sleep their jubilant troop is near, 

I tuneful voices overhear, 

It may be in wood or waste— 

At unawares’t is come and passed. 

Their near camp my spirit knows 
By signs gracious as rainbows. 

I thenceforward and long after, 

Listen for their harp-like laughter. 

And carry in my heart for days 
Peace that hallows rudest ways. 


THINE EYES STILL SHINED. 


T HINE eyes still shined for me, though far 
I lonely roved the land or sea: 

As I beheld yon evening star, 

Which yet beholds not me. 

This morn I climbed the misty hill, 

And roamed the pastures through : 


How danced thy form before my path, 
Amidst the deep-eyed dew! 

When the red bird spread his sable wing, 
And showed his side of flame— 

When the rose-bud ripened to the rose— 
In both I read thy name. 


DIRGE. 


K NOWS he who tills the lonely field 
To reap its scanty corn, 

What mystic fruit his acres yield 
At midnight and at morn. 

In the long sunny afternoon 
The plain was full of ghosts, 

I wandered up, I wandered down, 

Beset by pensive hosts. 

The winding Concord gleamed below, 
Pouring as wide a flood 
As when my brothers, long ago, 

Came with me to the wood. 


But they are gone—the holy ones 
Who trod with me this lonely vale, 
The strong, star-bright companions 
Are silent, low and pale. 

My good, my noble, in their prime, 

Who made this world the feast it was, 
Who learned with me the lore of Time, 
Who loved this dwelling-place ; 

They took this valley for their toy, 

They played with it in every mood, 

A cell for prayer, a hall for joy, 

They treated Nature as they would. 










54 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


They colored the whole horizon round, 
Stars flamed and faded as they bade, 

All echoes hearkened for their sound, 
They made the woodlands glad or mad. 

I touch this flower of silken leaf 
Which once our childhood knew, 

Its soft leaves wound me with a grief 
Whose balsam never grew. 

Hearken to yon pine warbler, 

Singing aloft in the tree; 

Hearest thou, O traveller! 

What he singeth to me ? 

Not unless God made sharp thine ear 
With sorrow such as mine, 


Out of that delicate lay couldst thou 
Its heavy tale divine. 

“ Go, lonely man,” it saith, 

“They loved thee from their birth, 

Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, 
There are no such hearts on earth. 

“ Ye drew one mother’s milk, 

One chamber held ye all, 

A very tender history 

Did in your childhood fall. 

“Ye cannot unlock your heart, 

The key is gone with them ; 

The silent organ loudest chants 
The master’s requiem.” 


THE AMULET. 


Y OUR picture smiles as first it smiled ; 

The ring you gave is still the same ; 
Your letter tells, oh changing child ! 
No tidings since it came. 

Give me an amulet 

That keeps intelligence with you— 


Red when you love, and rosier red, 

And when you love not, pale and blue. 

Alas! that neither bonds nor vows 
Can certify possession : 

Torments me still the fear that love 
Died in its last expression. 


THE TRUE HERO. 


O WELL for the fortunate soul 
Which Music’s wings unfold, 

Stealing away the memory 
Of sorrows new and old ! 

Yet happier he whose inward sight, 
Stayed on his subtle thought, 

Shuts his sense on toys of time, 

To vacant bosoms brought. 

But best befriended of the God 
He who, in evil times, 

Warned by an inward voice, 

Heeds not the darkness and the dread, 
Biding by his rule and choice, 

Telling only the fiery thread, 

Leading over heroic ground 
Walled with immortal terror round, 

To the aim which him allures, 

And the sweet heaven his deed secures, 
Peril around all else appalling, 
Cannon in front and leaden rain, 


Him duty through the clarion calling 
To the van called not in vain. 

Stainless soldier on the walls, 

Knowing this,—and knows no more,— 
Whoever fights, whoever falls, 

Justice conquers evermore, 

Justice after as before ;— 

And he who battles on her side, 

God, though he were ten times slain, 
Crowns him victor glorified, 

Victor over death and pain 

Forever: but his erring foe, 
Self-assured that he prevails, 

Looks from his victim lying low, 

And sees aloft the red right arm 
Redress the eternal scales. 

He, the poor for whom angels foil, 
Blind with pride and fooled by hate, 
Writhes within the dragon coil, 
Reserved to a speechless fate. 







RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 55 


CONCORD HYMN. 

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT. 


B Y the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world, 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 

And time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 


On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
We set to-day a votive stone ; 

That memory may their deed redeem, 
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 
Bid time and nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


I NSIST on yourself; never imitate. Your 
own gift you can present every moment 
with the cumulative force of a whole life’s 
cultivation; but of the adopted talent of 
another you have only an extemporaneous, half 
possession. That which each can do best, none 
but his Maker can teach him. No man yet 
knows what it is, nor can till that person has 
exhibited it. Where is the master who 
could have taught Shakespeare? Where 
is the master who could have instructed 


Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon, or 
Newton ? 

Every great man is a unique. The Scipi- 
onism of Scipio is precisely that part he could 
not borrow. If anybody would tell me whom 
the great man imitates in the original crisis 
when he performs a great act, I will tell him who 
else than himself can teach him. Shakespeare 
will never be made by the study of Shakes¬ 
peare. Do that which is assigned thee, and 
thou canst not hope too much or dare too much. 


BEAUTY OF HEROIC DEEDS. 


T HE high and divine beauty which can be 
loved without effeminacy, is that which 
is found in combination with the human 
will, and never separate. Beauty is the mark 
God sets upon virtue- Every natural action 
is graceful. Every heroic act is also decent, 
and causes the place and the bystanders to 
shine. We are taught by great actions that 
the universe is the property of every individ¬ 
ual in it. Every rational creature has all 
nature for his dowry and estate. It is his, if 
he will. He may divest himself of it; he may 
creep into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, 
as most men do; but he is entitled to the 
world by his constitution. In proportion to 
the energy of his thought and will, he takes 
up the world into himself. 

“All those things for which men plough, 
build or sail, obey virtue; ” said an ancient 
historian. “ The winds and waves,” said Gib¬ 


bon, “are always on the side of the ablest 
navigators.” So are the sun and moon and 
all the stars of heaven. When a noble act is 
done—perchance in a scene of great natural 
beauty; when Leonidas and his three hundred 
martyrs consume one day in dying, and the 
sun and moon come each and look at them 
once in the steep defile of Thermopylae; when 
Arnold Wiukelried, in the high Alps, under 
the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his 
side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break the 
line for his comrades; are not these heroes 
entitled to add the beauty of the scene to the 
beauty of the deed ? 

When the bark of Columbus nears the 
shore of America—before it, the beach lined 
with savages, fleeing out of all their huts of 
cane; the sea behind ; and the purple moun¬ 
tains of the Indian Archipelago around, can 
we separate the man from the living picture? 









56 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


Does not the New World clothe his form with 
her palm groves and savannahs as fit drapery ? 
Ever does natural beauty steal iu like air and 
envelop great actions. When Sir Harry Vane 
was dragged up the Tower-hill, sitting on a 
sled, to sutler death as the champion of the 
English laws, one of the multitude cried out 
to him, “You never sate on so glorious a seat.” 
Charles II., to intimidate the citizens of Lon¬ 
don, caused the patriot Lord Russell to be 
drawn in an open coach through the principal 
streets of the city on his way to the scaffold. 
“ But,” to use the simple narrative of his 
biographer, “ the multitude imagined they 


saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side.” 
Iu private places, among sordid objects, an 
act of truth or heroism seems at once to draw 
to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its 
candle. Nature stretcheth out her arms to 
embrace man, only let his thoughts be of equal 
greatness. Willingly does she follow his steps 
with the rose and the violet, and bend her 
lines of grandeur and grace to the decoration 
of her darling child. Only let his thoughts 
be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the 
picture. A virtuous man is in unison with 
her works and makes the central figure of the 
visible sphere. 


THE THINKER. 


W HAT is the hardest task in the world? 
To think. I would put myself iu 
the attitude to look in the eye of an 
abstract truth, and I cannot. I blench and 
withdraw on this side and that. I seem to 
know what he meant, who said, “ No man can 
see God face to face, and live.” For example, 
a man explores the basis of civil government. 
Let him intend his mind without respite, with¬ 
out rest, in one direction. His best heed long 
time avails him nothing. Yet thoughts are 
flitting before him. We all but apprehend, 
we dimly forebode the truth. We say, I will 
walk abroad, and the truth will take form 
and clearness to me. We go forth, but can¬ 
not find it. It seems as if we needed, only 


the stillness and composed attitude of the 
library, to seize the thought. 

But we come in, and are as far from it as 
at first. Then, in a moment, and unannounced 
the truth appears. A certain wandering light 
appears, and is the distinction, the principle, 
we wanted. But the oracle comes, because we 
bad previously laid siege to the shrine. It 
seems as if the law of the intellect resembles 
that law of nature by which we now inspire, 
now expire, the breath by which the heart 
now draws in, now hurls out the blood: the 
law of undulation. So now you must labor 
with your brains, and now you must forbear 
your activity, and see what the great soul 
showeth. 


THE POWER OF LOVE. 


* P'lIE passion remakes the world for the 
| youth. It makes all things alive and 
significant. Nature grows conscious. 
Every bird on the boughs of the tree sings now 
to his heart and soul. Almost the notes are 
articulate. The clouds have faces, as he looks 
on them. The trees of the forest, the waving 
grass and the peeping flower have grown 
intelligent; and almost he fears to trust them 
with the secret which they seem to invite. 
Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In the 
green solitude he finds a dearer home than 
with men. 


“ Fountain heaps and pathless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves, 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are safely housed, save bats and owls, 

A midnight bell, a passing groan, 

These are the sounds we feed upon.” 

Behold there in the wood the fine madman! 
He is the palace of sweet sounds and sights ; 
he dilates; he is twice a man; he walks with 
arms akimbo ; he soliloquizes; he accosts the 
grass and the trees; he feels the blood of the 







RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


violet, the clover and the lily in his veins; 
and he talks with the brook that wets his 
feet. 

The causes that have sharpened his percep¬ 
tions of natural beauty have made him love 
music and verse. It is a fact often observed 
that men have written good verses under the 
inspiration of passion, who cannot write well 
under any other circumstances. 

The like force has the passion over all his 
nature. It expands the sentiment; it makes 


5 r < 

the clown gentle, and gives the coward heart. 
Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse 
a heart and courage to defy the world, so only 
it have the countenance of the beloved object. 
In giving him to another, it still more gives 
him to himself. He is a new man, with new 
perceptions, new and keener purposes, and a 
religious solemnity of character and aims. He 
does not longer appertain to his family and 
society. He is somewhat. He is a person. 
He is a soul. 


MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL. 


T HE mountain and the squirrel 
Had a quarrel; 

And the former called the latter “ Little 
Prig.” 

Bun replied: 

“ You are doubtless very big ; 

But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together, 

To make up a year 
And a sphere. 


And I think it no disgrace 
To occupy my place. 

If I’m not so large as you, 

You are not so small as I, 

And not half so spry. 

I’ll not deny you make 
A very pretty squirrel track; 

Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put; 
If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
Neither can you crack a nut.” 






Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Erratic and Brilliant Genius. 



I IKE a meteor blazing across the sky was the career of that much 
admired and much lamented author, Edgar Allen Poe. At 
times he blazed brightly, again went under a cloud, and at every 
stage of his progress and achievements awakened surprise, and 
after burning in fitful splendor sank into the darkness of an 
early grave. The productions of his weird and mysterious 
genius have survived. 

The eminent author, Paul Hamilton Hayne, says of Edgar A. Poe: 


“ Two mighty spirits dwelt in him : 
One, a wild demon, weird and dim, 
The darkness of whose ebou wings 
Did shroud unutteiable things* 
One, a fair angel, in the skies 
Of whose serene, unshadowed eyes 
Were seen the lights of Paradise. 


To these, in turn, he gave the whole 
Vast empire of his brooding soul; 

Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell, 

Now thrilled with awful tones of hell: 

Wide were his being’s strange extremes, 

’Twixt nether glooms, and Eden gleams 
Of tender, or majestic dreams.” 

Poe was born in Baltimore, February 19, 1809. His family was one 
of the oldest and most respectable in that city. David Poe, his paternal 
grandfather, was a quartermaster-general in the Maryland line during the 
Revolution, and the intimate friend of Lafayette, who, during his last visit 
to the United States, called personally upon the general’s widow, and 
tendered her his acknowledgments for the services rendered to him by her 
husband. His father and mother died within a few weeks of each other, 
of consumption, leaving him an orphan, at two years of age. Mr. John 
Allan, a wealthy gentleman of Richmond, Virginia, took a fancy to him, 
58 





EDGAR ALLAN POE. 


59 


and persuaded General Poe, his grandfather, to suffer him to adopt him. 
He was brought up in Mr. Allan’s family; and as that gentleman had 
no other children, he was regarded as his son and heir. In 1816 he 
accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Allan to Great Britain, visited every portion 
of it, and afterward passed four or five years in a school kept at Stoke 
Newington, near London, by the Reverend Doctor Bransby. He returned 
to America in 1822, and in 1825 went to the Jefferson University, at 
Charlottesville, in Virginia, where he led a very dissipated life, the manners 
of the college being at that time extremely dissolute. He took the first 
honors, however, and went home greatly in debt. 

Mr. Allan refused to pay some of his debts and he hastily quitted the 
country on a Quixotic expedition to join the Greeks, then struggling for 
liberty. He did not reach his original destination, however, but made his 
way to St. Petersburg, in Russia, where he became involved in difficulties 
from which he was extricated by Mr. Henry Middleton, the American 
minister at that capital. He returned home in 1829, and immediately 
afterward entered the military academy at West Point. 

In about eighteen months from that time, Mr. Allan, who had lost 
his first wife while Mr. Poe was in Russia, married again. He was sixty- 
five years of age, and the lady was young; Poe quarrelled with her, and 
the veteran husband, taking the part of his wife addressed him an angry 
letter, which was answered in the same spirit. Mr. Allan died soon after, 
leaving an infant son the heir to his property, and bequeathed Poe 
nothing. 

The army, in the opinion of the young cadet, was not a place for a 
poor man; so he left West Point abruptly, and determined to maintain 
himself by authorship. He had printed, while in the military academy, 
a small volume of poems, most of which were written in early youth. They 
illustrated the character of his abilities, and justified his anticipations of 
success. For a considerable time, however, his writings attracted but 
little attention. At length, in 1831, the proprietor of a weekly literary 
gazette in Baltimore offered two premiums, one for the best story in prose, 
and the other for the best poem. In due time our author sent in two 
articles, both of which were successful with the examining committee, and 
popular upon their appearance before the public. 

Mr. Thomas W. White had then recently established “ The South¬ 
ern Literary Messenger,” at Richmond, and upon the warm recommenda¬ 
tion of a member of the committee that has been referred to, Mr. Poe was 


60 


EDGAR ALLAN POE. 


engaged by him to be its editor. He continued in this situation about a 
year and a half, in which he wrote mauy brilliant articles, and raised the 
“ Messenger ” to the first rank of literary periodicals. 

He next removed to Philadelphia, to assist Mr. W. E. Burton in the 
editorship of the “ Gentleman’s Magazine,” a miscellany that in 1840 was 
merged in “ Graham’s Magazine,” of which Mr. Poe became one of the 
principal writers, particularly in criticism, in which his papers attracted 
much attention, by their careful and skilful analysis, and generally 
caustic severity. At this period, however, he appears to have been more 
ambitious of securing distinction in romantic fiction, and a collection of 
his compositions in this department, published in 1841, under the title 
of “ Tales of the Grotesque and the Arabesque,” established his reputation 
for ingenuity, imagination and extraordinary power in tragical narration. 

Near the end of 1844, Mr. Poe removed to New York, where he con¬ 
ducted for several months a literary miscellany called “ The Broadway 
Journal.” In 1845 he published a volume of Tales, in Wiley and Putnam’s 
“ Library of American Books,” and in the same series, a collection of his 
Poems, including “ The Raven,” of which Mr. N. P. Willis observes, that 
in his opinion “ it is the most effective single example of fugitive poetry 
ever published in this country, and is unsurpassed in English poetry for 
subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent 
sustaining of imaginative lift.” 

“ Ulalume,” “Annabel Lee,” and “To-,” were written after the 

appearance of Mr. Poe’s volume. In poetry, as in prose, he is most suc¬ 
cessful in the metaphysical treatment of the passions. His poems are con¬ 
structed with consummate art. They illustrate a morbid sensitiveness of 
feeling, a shadowy and gloomy imagination, and a taste almost faultless 
in the apprehension of that sort of beauty most agreeable to his temper. 

Besides the volumes mentioned, Mr. Poe is the author of “Arthur 
Gordon Pym,” a romance ; “ A New Theory of English Versification 
“ Eureka,’’ an essay on the material and spiritual universe : a work which 
he wishes to have “ judged as a poem;” and several extended series of 
papers in the periodicals, the most noticeable of which were “ Marginalia” 
embracing opinions of books and authors; “Secret Writing,” “Auto¬ 
graphy,” and “ Sketches of the Literati of New York.” 

Among Mr. Poe’s stories the most familiar are, “ The Gold Bug,” and 
“ The Mystery of Maril Roget.” He was also the author of Essays on 
Mrs. Browning, Macaulay, Dickens, Lever, Longfellow and Hawthorne. 






'tTHCRHES HOt 



































H-llH" 















EDGAR ALLAN POE. 


61 


A discriminating critic has characterized Poe as “ perfectly poetic in 
his own province. If his circle is narrow, it is a magic one. His poetry 
is sheer poetry and borrows nothing from without.” 

After a life of singular vicissitude and “ unmerciful disaster, caused 
mainly by his own passions and weaknesses, Poe died at Baltimore 
October 7th, 1849. 


ANNABEL LEE. 


I T was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, [know 

That a maiden there lived, whom you may 
By the name of Annabel Lee ; 

And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child, and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea; 

But we loved with a love that was more than 
love, 

I and my Annabel Lee- 
With a love that the winged seraphs of 
heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful Annabel Lee; 

So that her high-born kinsmen came 
And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre 
In this kingdom by the sea. 


The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
Went envying her and me, 

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, 
In this kingdom by the sea) 

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the 
Of those who were older than we, [love 
Of many far wiser than we ; 

And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing 
me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, [eyes 

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 

And so all the night-time, I lie down by the 
side [my bride 

Of my darling—my darling—my life and 
In the sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 


THE HAUNTED PALACE. 


I N the greenest of our valleys, 

By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace 

(Snow-white palace) reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought’s dominion 
It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 
Over fabric half so fair. 


Banners, yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow ; 

(This, all this, was in the olden 
Time, long ago.) 

And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
A winged odor went away. 






EDGAR ALLAN POE. 


62 


Wanderers in that happy valley 
Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically, 

To a lute’s well-tuned law ; 

Round about a throne, where, sitting 
(Porphyrogene !) 

In state his glory well-befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 


And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
Was the fair palace-door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 
And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty 
Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 


But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
Assailed the monarch’s high tstate; 
(Ah ! let us mourn, for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him, desolate !) 
And round about his home the glory 
That blushed and bloomed, 

Is but a dim-remembered story 
Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers now within that valley, 
Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms, that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody; 

While, like a rapid, ghastly river, 
Through the pale door, 

A hideous throng rush out for ever, 
And laugh—but smile no more. 


THE BELLS. 

In his poems Poe often gave expression to a favorite conceit, which was the adaptation of 
the words and rhythm not merely to the sense, but to sound. The following poem, if read 
by a trained elocutionist (and it is one of the very best for a skillful reader), would so fully 
reproduce the sounds of “ The Bells ” that the listener could easily imagine he heard them in 
the distance. 


H EAR the sledges with the bells, 

Silver bells! [foretells! 

What a world of merriment their melody 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night! 

While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells, [bells. 

From the jingling and the tinkling of the 

Hear the mellow wedding bells— 
Golden bells 1 [tells! 

What a world of happiness their harmony fore- 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 

From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune, 

What a liquid ditty floats [gloats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 
On the moon! 


Oh, from out the sounding cells, 

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells! 

How it dwells 
On the future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells— 

To the rhyming and the chiming ofthe bells! 

Hear the loud alarum bells— 

Brazen bells! [tel's! 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbuleucy 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 

Too much horrified to speak, 

They can only shriek, shriek, 

Out of tune, [fire, 

In a clamorous appealing to the me»-cy of the 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 
frantic fire 

Leaping higher, higher, higher, 

With a desperate desire, 





EDGAR ADLAN POE. 


63 


And a resolute endeavor, 

Now—now to sit or never, 

By the side of the pale-f;iced moon. 

Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 

What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 

How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 

Yet the car, it fully knows, 

By the twanging, 

And the clanging, 

HovV the danger ebbs and flows ; 

Yet the ear distinctly tells, 

In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 

How the danger sinks and swells, 

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of 
the bells— 

Of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells— 

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 

Hear the tolling of the bells— 

Iron bells! [corapells! 

What a world of solemn thought their monody 
In the sileuce of the night 
How we shiver with affright, 

A.t the melancholy menace of their tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 


And the people—ah, the people— 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

A11 alone, 

And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In the muffled monotone, 

Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone— 

They are neither man nor woman— 
They are neither brute nor human— 
They are Ghouls: 

And their king it is who tolls; 

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 

A psean from the bells! 

And his merry bosom swells 
With the psean of the bells! 

And he dances and he yells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the psean of the bells— 

Of the bells; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells, 

In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 

To the tolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells— 

Bells, bells, bells, 

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 


LENORE. 


When Poe was a student of the Academy at Richmond, Va., a boy at this time about 
sixteen years old, he was invited by a friend to visit his home. Poe found there an unusually 
attractive and happy household. The mother was a beautiful woman, with tender heart and 
affectionate disposition. She felt great sympathy and compassion for Poe on account of his 
orphanage. Poe was deeply touched by the kindness of his friend’s mother who died soon 
afterward. He never forgot her gentle spirit, and this, in imagination, he embodied, in a 
younger person of peculiar charms, and celebrated it in the poem of “ Lenore.” This is one 
of his finest productions and shows the better side of his character. 


A H, broken is the golden bowl, 
The spirit flown forever! 
Let the bell toll! 

A saintly soul 

Floats on the Stygian river ; 


And, Guy de Yere, 

Hast thou no tear ? 

Weep now or never more! 
See, on yon drear 
And rigid bier 





64 


EDGAR ALLAN POE. 


Low lies thy love, Lenore ! 

Come, let the burial rite be read— 

The funeral-song be sung!— 

Au anthem for the queenliest dead 
That ever died so young— 

A dirge for her, the doubly dead, 

In that she died so young! 

“ Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth, 

And hated her for her pride; 

And when she fell in feeble health, 

Ye blessed her—that she died ! 

How shall the ritual, then, be read ? 

The requiem how be sung 
By you—by yours, the evil eye— 

By yours the slanderous tongue 
That did to death the innocence 
That died, and died so young?” 

Peccavimus; 

But rave not thus! 

And let a sabbath song [no wrong! 

Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel 
The sweet Lenore 
Hath “ gone before,” 

With hope that flew r beside, 

Leaving thee wild 
For the dear child 

That should have been thy bride— 


For her, the fair 
And debonair, 

That now so lowly lies. 

The life upon her yellow hair 
But not within her eyes— 

The life still there, 

Upon her hair— 

The death upon her eyes. 

“Avaunt! to-night 
My I eart is light 

No dirge will I upraise, 

But waft the angel on her flight 
With a paean of old days ! 

Let no bell toll!— 

Lest her sweet soul, 

Amid its hallowed mirth, 

Should catch the note, 

As it doth float— 

Up from the damned earth. 

To friends above, from fiends below 
The indignant ghost is riven— 
From hell unto a high estate 
Far up within the heaven— 

From grief and groan, 

To a golden throne, 

I Beside the King of Heaven.” 


THE RAVEN. 


No production of Poe’s so vividly shows his dark, weird, mysterious genius as “The 
Raven.” There is a perfect harmony between the poet’s conception and the expression of it 
in his verse. The poet is in his study trying to soothe the grief he feels for his lost “Lenore.” 
A raven—the symbol of despair—enters and perches on a bust of Pallas. Then follows a 
c lloquy between the poet and the croaking bird, mournfully repeating, “Nevermore.” This 
is Poe’s most famous poem, and is enough of itself to perpetuate his fame. 


O NCE upon a midnight dreary, 

While I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious 
Volume of forgotten lore, 

While I nodded, nearly napping, 
Suddenly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, 

Rapping at my chamber door. 

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, 

“ Tapping at my chamber door— 

Only this, and nothing more.” 


Ah, distinctly I remember, 

It was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember 
Wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; 

Vaily I had tried to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow— 
Sorrow for the lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden 
Whom the angels name Lenore— 
Nameless here for evermore. 






EDGAR ALLAN POE. 


65 


And the silken, sad, uncertain 
Rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic 
Terrors never felt before ; 

So that now, to still the beating 
Of my heart, I stood repeating 
“ Tis some visitor entreating 

Entrance at my chamber door— 
Some late visitor entreating 

Entrance at my chamber door— 

This it is, and nothing more.” 

Presently my soul grew stronger; 
Hesitating then no longer, 

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly 
Your forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, 

And so gently you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, 
Tapping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you”— 
Here I opened wide the door: 
Darkness there and nothing more! 

Deep into that darkness peering, 

Long I stood there wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
Ever dared to dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, 

And the darkness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken 

Was the whispered word, “ Lenore ! ” 
This I whispered, and an echo 

Murmured back the word, “ Lenore,” 
Merely this, and nothing more. 

Then into the chamber turning, 

All my soul within me burning, 

Soon I heard again a tapping 
Somewhat louder than before. 

“ Surely,” said I, “ surely that is 
Something at my window lattice; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, 

And this mystery explore— 

Let my heart be still a moment, 

And this mystery explore— 

’Tis the wind, and nothing more! ” 

Open here I flung the shutter, 

When, with many a flirt and flutter, 

5 


In there stepped a stately raven 
Of the saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he ; 

Not an instant stopped or stayed he; 
But with mien of lord or lady, 

Perched above my chamber door— 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas 
Just above my chamber door— 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling 
My sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum 
Of the countenance it wore, 

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
Thou,” I said, “ art sure no craven, 
Ghastly grim and ancient raven, 

Wandering from the Nightly shore— 
Tell me what thy lordly name is 
On the Night’s Plutonian shore!” 
Quoth the raven “ Nevermore.” 

Much I marvelled this ungainly 
Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning— 
Little relevancy bore ; 

For wc c annot help agreeing 
That no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing 
Bird above his chamber door— 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured 
Bust above his chamber door, 

With such name as “ Nevermore. 

But the raven sitting lonely 
On the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in 
That one word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered— 

Not a feather then he fluttered— 

Till I scarcely more than muttered 
“ Other friends have flown before— 
On the morrow he will leave me, 

As my hopes have flown before.” 

Then the bird said “Nevermore.” 

Startled at the stillness broken 
By reply so aptly spoken, 

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters 
It is only stock and store 




EDGAR ALLAN POE- 


66 

Caught from some unhappy master 
Whom unmerciful disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, 

Till his songs one burden bore— 

Till the dirges of his hope 
That melancholy burden bore 
Of ‘Nevermore ’—of ‘Nevermore. ’” 

But the raven still beguiling 
All my sad soul into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 
Front of bird and bust and door; 

Then upon the velvet sinking, 

I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking 

What this ominous bird of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 

Gaunt and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking “ Nevermore.” 

This I sat engaged in guessing, 

But no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now 
Burned into my bosom’s core; 

This - and more I sat divining, 

With my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion’s velvet lining 
That the lamplight gloated o’er; 

But whose velvet violet lining 
With the lamplight gloating o’er, 

She shall press, ah, never more ! 

Then, methought the air grew denser, 
Perfumed from an unseen censer, 

Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls 
Tinkle on the tufted floor. 

“ Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee, 
By these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite—respite and nepenthe 
From thy memories of Lenore! 

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, 

And forget this lost Lenore ! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore! ” 

“ Prophet! ” said I, “ thing of evil!— 
Prophet still, if bird or devil! 


Whether tempest sent, or whether 
Tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate yet all undaunted, 

On this desert land enchanted— 

On this home by horror haunted— 

Tell me truly, I implore— 

Is there—is there balm in Gilead ? 

Tell me—loll me, I implore! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore.” 

“ Prophet! ” 6aid I, “ thing of evil— 
Prophet still, if bird or devil!— 

By that heaven that bends above us— 
By that God we both adore— 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden 
If, within the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden 
Whom the angels name Lenore— 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 
Whom the angels name Lenore.” 
Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore.” 

“ Be that word our sign of parting, 

Bird or fiend ! ” I shrieked, upstarting— 

“Get thee back into the tempest 
And the night’s Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token 
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken!— 

Quit the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, 

And take thy form from off my door! 
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” 

And the raven, never flitting, 

Still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas 
Just above my chamber door ; 

And his eyes have all the seeming 
Of a demon that is dreaming, 

And the lamplight o’er him streaming 
Throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow 
That lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted—nevermore! 



Richard Henry Stoddard. 

Journalist and Poet. 



R. STODDARD was born at Hingham, Mass.; and in child¬ 
hood removed to New York City. 

The first poem to which his name was attached attracted 
notice by a purity and quiet grace of language, which, though 
echoing at times the masters of song whom he studied, would 
have suggested a greater range of opportunity and experience 
than he actually possessed. In the autumn of 1848 he collected a number 
of his effusions, most of which had previously been published in the 
Knickerbocker and Union Magazine, into a small volume, with the title 
of “ Foot-Prints.” 

This volume was well received; notwithstanding some traces of 
unconscious imitation, natural to a young writer, it gave evidence of a 
clear and vigorous fancy and a correct appreciation of the harmonies of 
sound and rhythm. Perhaps the most individual trait displayed in its 
pages is a capacity for finished and picturesque description. His land¬ 
scapes have a sharp and distinct outline, in which none of the minor 
features are omitted—a keen perception of form, in striking contrast to 
the more glowing coloring and careless outline of young writers in general. 

A second collection of Mr. Stoddard’s poems appeared in 1851. 
These gave evidence of a growing literary taste and of his more thorough 
command of his affluent gifts. In 1852 he married Elizabeth D. Barstow, 
a poetess. She was a help to him in his literary pursuits, being a person 
of good judgment and refined taste. 

From 1853 to 1870 Mr. Stoddard held a position in the Custom 
House of New York, and in 1877 was appointed City Librarian. Among 
' his later works are “Life of A. Von Humboldt” (i860), “The King’s 
Bell” (1862), and “The Book of the East” (1871). A complete edition 
of his poems, in one volume, appeared in 1880. He has also edited a 
number of books, among others “ The Brica-Brac Series,” (1874-75). 

At a dinner given to Mr. Stoddard by the Authors’ Club in New 
York, March 25th, 1897, more than one hundred and fifty distinguished 





G8 


RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 


persons gathered and by their speeches and tokens of greeting did honor 
to their venerable guest. The well-known poet, Mr. E. C. Stedman, pre¬ 
sided, and among those who found it impossible to attend and sent letters 
of regret were, James Whitcomb Riley, Bishop Potter, Hon. Andrew D. 
White, William Allen Butler, Prof. Charles Kliot Norton and others. 

An appreciative letter from Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel), closed 
with these w r ords: 

“ There is not one of you who has a truer relish for the charming 
ways in which that favorite poet can twist our good mother-English into 
resonant shapes of verse. I pray you to tell him so, and that only the 
weakness of age—quickened by this wintry March—keeps me from 
putting in an ‘Adsum,’ at the roll-call of your guests.” 

An eminent critic thus estimates Mr. Stoddard’s literary merits : 
“ His mind is essentially poetical. All his works are stamped with earn¬ 
estness. His style is characterized by purity and grace of expression. 
He is a master of rythmical melody and his mode of treating a subject is 
sometimes exquisitely subtle. In his poems there is no rude writing. 
All is finished and highly glazed. The coloring is warm, the costumes 
harmonious, the grouping symmetrical. His poetry always possesses a 
spiritual meaning. Every sound and sight in nature is to him a symbol 
which strikes some spiritual chord. The trees that wave at his window, 
and the moon that silvers his roof are to him things that play an intimate 
part in his existence. Thus in all his poems will be found an echo from 
an internal to an external nature, the harmony resulting from the inti¬ 
mate union of both.” 

At the dinner above referred to, James Whitcomb Riley contributed 
these graceful lines: 


O princely poet! kingly heir 
Of gift divinely sent— 

Your own—nor envy anywhere, 

Nor voice of discontent. 

Though, of ourselves, all poor are we. 
And frail and weak of wing, 

Your height is ours—your ecstasy, 
Your glory, where you sing. 

Most favored of the gods and great 
In gifts beyond our store, 

We covet not your rich estate, 

But prize our own the more. 


RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 


69 


The gods give as but gods may do; 

We count our riches thus— 

They gave their richest gifts to you, 

And then gave you to us. 

Mr. Stoddard, who at that time was seventy-five years old, replied to 
the congratulations of his admirers in one of the following poems, “ A 
Curtain Call,” plainly showing that his hand had not forgotten its cunning. 


THE SEA. 


T HROUGH the night, through the night, 
In the saddest unrest, 

Wrapt in white, all in white, 

With her babe on her breast 
Walks the mother so pale, 

Staring out on the gale 
Through the night! 


Through the night, through the night 
Where the sea lifts the wreck, 
Land in sight, close in sight, 

On the surf-flooded deck 
Stands the father so brave, 

Driving on to his grave 
Through the night! 


THERE ARE GAINS FOR ALL THE LOSSES. 


T HERE are gains for all our losses— 
There are balms for all our pain ; 
But when youth, the dream de¬ 
parts, 

It takes something from our hearts, 

And it never comes again. 

We are stronger and are better, 

Under manhood’s sterner reign; 


Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful has vanished, 
And we sigh for it in vain ; 

We behold it everywhere, 

On the earth, and in the air, 

But it never comes again. 


A CURTAIN CALL. 


G ENTLEMEN : If I have any right 
To come before you here to-night 
It is conferred on me by you, 

And more for what I tried to do 
Than anything that I have done. 

A start, perhaps, a race not won ! 

But ’tis not wholly lost, I 6ee, 

For you, at least, believe in me. 

Comrades, nay, fellows, let me say, 
Since life at most is but a play, 

And we are players, one and all, 

And this is but a curtain call, 

If I were merely player here, 


And this assumption of his part, 

I might pretend to drop a tear, 

And lay my hand upon my heart 
And say I could not speak, because 
I felt so deeply your applause! 

I cannot do this, if I would ; 

I can but thank you, as I should, 
And take the honors you bestow— 

A largess, not a lawful claim ; 

My share thereof is small, I know, 
But from your hands to-night is fame 
A precious crown in these pert days 
Of purchased or of self-made bays; 
You give it—I receive it, then, 








70 


RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 


Though rather for your sake than mine. 
A long and honorable line 
Is yours—the Peerage of the Pen, 
Founded when this old world was young, 
And need was to preserve for men 
(Lost else) what had been said and sung, 
Tales our forgotten fathers told, 

Dimly remembered from of old, 

Sonorous canticles and prayers, 

Service of elder gods than theirs 
Which they knew not; the epic strain 
Wherein dead people lived again ! 

A long, unbroken line is ours; 

It has outlived whole lines of kings. 

Seen mighty empires rise and fall 
And nations pass away like flowers 
Ruin and darkness cover all! 

Nothing withstands the stress and strain 


The endless ebb and flow of things, 

The rush of Time’s resistless wings! 
Nothing? One thing, and not in vain. 
One thing remains: Letters remain ! 
Your art and mine, yours more than mine, 
Good fellows of the lettered line, 

To whom I owe this Curtain Call, 

I thank you all, I greet you all. 

Noblesse oblige ! But while I may, 
Another word, my last, maybe: 

When this life-play of mine is ended, 

And the black curtain has descended, 
Think kindly as you can of me, 

And say, for you may truly say, 

“ This dead player, living, loved his part, 
And made it noble as he could, 

Not for his own poor personal good, 

But for the glory of his art! ” 


BURIAL OF LINCOLN. 


P EACE! Let the long procession come, 
For hark!—the mournful, muffled drum, 
The trumpet’s wail afar; 

And see! the awful car! 

Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 

Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 
To honor all they can, 

The dust of that good man! 

Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
As greatest kings might die to gain ; 

The just, the wise, the brave 
Attend thee to the grave! 

And you, the soldiers of our wars, 

Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, 
Salute him once again, 

Your late commander— slain! 

And there his countrymen shall come, 

With memory proud, with pity dumb, 

And strangers far and near, 

For many and many a year! 


Peace! Let the sad procession go, 

While cannon boom, and bells toll slow ; 
And go, thou sacred car 
Bearing our woe afar! 

Yes, let your tears indignant fall, 

But leave your muskets on the wall; 
Your country needs you now 
Beside the forge, the plough! 

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
The fallen to his last repose. 

Beneath no mighty dome, 

But in his modest home, 

The churchyard where his children rest, 
The quiet spot that suits him best, 

There shall his grave be made, 

And there his bones be laid ! 

For many a year and many an age, 
While history on her ample page 
The virtues shall enroll 
Of that paternal soul 1 





Francis Bret Harte. 

Poet and Chronicler of Western Life. 


RANCIS BRET HARTE was born in Albany New York, 
August 25, 1839. His father, a teacher in the Female Semi¬ 
nary, died early, and the boy received only a common school 
education. He went to California with his mother in 1854, and 
opened a school at Sonora; but he was not successful in this, 
nor in mining, which he tried afterwards. He next became a 
compositor, and in 1857 obtained employment in the office of the “ Golden 
Era,” in San Francisco. 

His experiences among miners and the rough population that were 
attracted by the “ gold-craze ” had made a powerful impression upon his 
mind, and his first literary efforts were sketches of the people and the 
scenes he had observed. These sketches attracted much attention, and as 
a result the author became one of the staff of the paper. 

His “ Condensed Novels ” afterwards appeared in another weekly, the 
“ Californian.” He was secretary of the United States Mint in San Fran¬ 
cisco from 1864 to 1870, and during this period wrote some of his most 
famous poems, among them u John Burns of Gettysburg,” “ The Society 
upon the Stanislaus,” etc. He founded in 1868 and edited the “ Overland 
Monthly,” to which he contributed “ The Luck of Roaring Camp,” “ The 
Outcasts of Poker Flat,” “ The Idyl of Red Gulch,” and “ Plain Lan¬ 
guage from Truthful James ” (“ The Heathen Chinee ”). Returning to 
the East, he became a contributor to the “ Atlantic Monthly,” and from 
time to time delivered lectures in various cities upon the pioneers of Cali¬ 
fornia. In 1878 he received the appointment of United States Consul at 
Crefeld. After two years he was transferred to Glasgow, and held that 
post until 1885. Subsequently he resided in London, and devoted him¬ 
self to literary pursuits. 

Bret Harte has been a prolific writer, and almost everything from his 
pen bears the stamp of his original genius. This, however, is truer of the 
earlier and middle period than of the later. Generally, he is strongest in 
the field of which he was the discoverer; although in some instances— 

n 




72- 


FRANC IS BRET HARTE. 


notably in “ Thankful Blossom ’’—he has produced exquisite romances,, 
sometimes with a pastoral flavor, wholly unlike the turbulence of the first 
efforts. 

The mixture of southern and western people in the early rush to the 
gold fields seems to have produced a new dialect, but it probably had a 
brief existence. At least, it would be wrong to suppose that the peculiar 
phrases in the mining sketches (so picturesque and shocking at once) are 
part of the daily talk of the people to-day. But the dialect was not all. 
Harte has described or invented new types of character, and has portrayed 
them and their surroundings with a vivid energy that has no modern 
counterpart. 

It is difficult to say whether he has been more successful in poetry 
or in prose; for the same virile power appears in both, and he has evi¬ 
dently by nature a strong sense of melody and great facility in verse. In 
“John Burns of Gettysburg” and “ Dickens in Camp” there is evidence 
that he might have taken a higher place among poets if he had devoted 
himself to serious work. But his instinct has been his guide, and has led 
him in the path of fame. It must be remembered that he acquired the art 
of effective writing by practice, without previous discipline, and that for 
him there was no model. Since he has shown the way, a number of men 
have become celebrated—in the American newspapers—by verses full of 
ellipses and eccentricities, and with as much of the victorious ease and 
dash of Bret Harte as they could borrow. 

His Complete Works, collected and revised by himself, appeared in 
London in 5 volumes in 1881. Since then his publications have included 
“ Flip ” (1882) ; “ In the Carquinez Woods ’’ (1883); “ By Shore and 
Sedge ” (1885); “ Snowbound at Eagle’s ” (1886); “ A Phyllis of the Sier¬ 
ras,” and “ A Drift from Redwood Camp ” (1888); “ Cressy ” and “ The 
Heritage of Dedlow Marsh, and Other Tales” (1889); “Three Partners, 
or The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill ” (1897). Died, May 6, 1902. 


PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. 


W HICH I wish to remark— 

And my language is plain— 
That for ways that are dark, 

And for tricks that are vain, 

The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 

Which the same I would rise to explain. 


Ah Sin was his name, 

And I shall not deny 
In regard to the same 

What that name might imply; 

But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 












FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 


was August the third, 

And quite soft were the skies; 

’hich it might be inferred 
That Ah Sin was likewise, 
it he played it that day upon William 
And me in a way I despise. 

hich we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand; 

was euchre—the same 

He did not understand ; 

it he smiled as he sat at the table 

With the smile that was childlike and bland. 

it the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve, 

id my feelings were shocked 

At the state of Nye’s sleeve, 

hich was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 

And the same with intent to deceive. 

it the hands that were played 
By that heathen Chinee 
id the points that he made 
Were quite frightful to see, 

11 at last he put down a right bower, 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 


Then I looked up at Nye, 

And he gazed upon me; 

And he rose with a sigh, 

And said, “ Can this be? 

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor!” 

And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 
I did not take a hand, 

But the floor it was strewed 
Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding 
In the game he did not understand. 

In his sleeves, which were long, 

He had twenty-four packs, 

Which was coming it strong, 

Yet I state but the facts; 

And we found on his nails, which were taper, 
What is frequent in tapers—that’s wax. 

Which is why I remark— 

And my language is plain— 

That for ways that are dark, 

And for tricks that are vain, 

The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 


SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 


RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name 
is Truthful James; 

I am not up to small deceit or any sinful 
games; 

id I’ll tell in simple language what I know 
about the row 

at broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 

it first, I would remark, that it is not a pro¬ 
per plan 

>r any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, 

id, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar 
whim, 

lay for that same member for to “ put a 
head ” on him. 

>w nothing could be finer or more beautiful 
to see 

Lan the first six months’ proceedings of that 
same Society, 


Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil 
bones 

That he found within a tunnel near the tene¬ 
ment of Jones. 

Then Brown, he read a paper, and he recon¬ 
structed there, 

From those same bones, an animal that was 
extremely rare; 

And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspen¬ 
sion of the rules, 

Till he could prove that those same bones was 
one of his lost mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, an’ said 
he was at fault, 

It seems he had been trespassing on Jones’s 
family vault; 














74 


FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 


He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. 
Brown, 

And on several occasions he had cleaned out 
the town. 

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 

To say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent; 

Nor should the individual who happens to be 
meant 

Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great 
extent. 

Then Abner Dean, of Angel’s, raised a point 
of order, when 

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the 
abdomen ; 

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and 
curled up on the floor, 


And the subsequent proceedings interested him 
no more; 

For, in less time than I write it, every member 
did engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of the palaeozoic 

age; 

And the way they heaved those fossils, in their 
anger, was a sin, 

’Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the 
head of Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper 
games, 

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name 
is Truthful James; 

And I’ve told in simple language what I knew 
about the row 

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow 


DICKENS 

BOVE the pines the moon was slowly 
drifting, 

The river sang below; 

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, 
painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drocpcd and 
fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack’sscant treasure 
A hoarded volume drew, 

And cards were dropped from hands of listless 
leisure, 

To hear the tale anew; 

And then, while round them shadows gathered 
faster, 

And as the firelight fell, 

He read aloud the book wherein the Master 
Had writ of “Little Nell.” 

Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy—for the reader 
Was youngest of them all— 

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
A silence seemed to fall; 


IN CAMP. 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in tne shadows, 
Listened in every spray, 

While the whole camp, with “ Nell,” on Eng¬ 
lish meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken 
As by some spell divine— 

Their cares dropped from them like the 
needles shaken 
From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: 

And he who wrought that spell 1— 

Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire. 
Ye have one tale to tell! 

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glon 
That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and 
holly 

And laurel wreaths intwine, 

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly— 
This spray of Western pine, 






Josiah Gilbert Holland. 

Journalist, Novelist and Poet. 


R. J. G. HOLLAND was born at Belchertown, Mass., July 24, 
1819. When he had partly completed his studies, preparatory 
to entering college, his health became enfeebled by too severe 
application, and he concluded, after a period of relaxation, to 
study medicine, which he did, in the meantime teaching as a 
means of support. In 1845, h e took Lis degree of M. D., at 
the Berkshire Medical College, Pittsfield, Mass., and practiced about two 
years at Springfield, where he married Elizabeth L. Chapin. 

He afterwards became teacher of a private school at Richmond, Va., 
for three months, and then accepted the appointment of Superintendent 
of Public Schools in Vicksburg, Miss. While there, he wrote frequently 
for the press : but, after discharging the duties of his office with great 
satisfaction for a year and a half, he accepted an offer as editor of the 
“ Springfield Republican,” and removed back to Massachusetts. He 
discharged his editorial duties with such tact and ability, that that paper 
became one of the most successful and widely known and quoted journals 
in the country. 

In 1855, Hr. Holland published the “ History of Western Massa¬ 
chusetts,” of four counties, in 2 vols., i2mo., which he had written the 
previous year. In 1857, appeared the “ Bay Path,” a novel founded on 
some of the colonial incidents of his history; which did not meet with 
much success, nor at a later period when it was reissued. 

In 1858, he reprinted from the “ Republican,” “ Timothy Titcomb’s 
Letters to Young People,” that had an immediate and great success, and 
which very deservedly still continues. Eminently successful in their 
manner and adaptation to the wants of the country, they attracted 
attention for their beauty of style, purity of English, and sound common 
sense. The advice contained in them is excellent, entirely practical, 



75 



76 


JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. 


sufficiently minute, and eminently judicious —intended to make useful 
and happy men and women. 

The same year he published, “ Bitter Sweet,” a poem of New England 
rustic life, unique in its structure, for the most part in blank verse, of a 
somewhat rugged character, in keeping with the subject matter. It opens 
with a picture of a wild November storm raging around a country home¬ 
stead on a New England Thanksgiving, at which the gathered family, 
after the bountiful repast and the pleasantries of the evening, talk far 
into the night upon questions of theology, in connection with their per¬ 
sonal experiences of the joys and sorrows of life. It met with great 
success in both illustrated and plain editions. 

In 1859, he issued “ Gold Foil Hammered from Popular Proverbs,” 
in which, with a wider scope in its treatment of social subjects than in 
“ Titcomb’s Letters,” it treated of matters of the same general character 
in the same common sense way. This was followed by three other books 
of somewhat similar character: “ Letters to the Joneses,” “ Lessons in 

Life,” a series of familiar essays, and “ Plain Talk on Familiar Subjects.” 

In i860, Dr. Holland published his second novel, ‘‘Miss Gilbert’s 
Career,” a tale of American village life, well told, with some powerfully 
drawn characters, truthful pictures, and humorous delineations. It met 
with a fair share of success. 

Upon the death of Mr. Lincoln, Dr. Holland wrote a very excellent 
biography, which had a large sale by subscription. In 1867, he pub¬ 
lished his second long poem, “ Kathrina,” her sorrows and mine, which 
at once attained to great popularity in ail elegantly illustrated octavo 
edition, also in a plain edition. Other works of Dr. Holland are the 
novels, “ Arthur Bounicastle,” “ The Story of Sevenoaks,” and “ Nicholas 
Minturn.” In 1874 appeared one of his finest poems, “The Mistress of 
the Manse." 

Dr. Holland died October 12th, 1881. He ranks as one of the most 
popular of American authors ; and perhaps no American poet met with such 
instant and ready recognition, such universal popularity, and with so great 
literary and pecuniary success. If there is a New England type of author, 
he is a good representative of it. To substantial thought, high ideals, 
sound morality and a practical flavor, he added unfailing common sense, a 
rare wisdom for everyday life and an earnest effort to be helpful to his 
readers in their pursuit of the grandest and most worthy objects. 


JOSIAH GILBERT HOLEAND. 


77 


CRADLE SONG. 

FROM “ BITTER SWEET.” 


W HAT is the little one thinking about ? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt; 
Unwritten history! 

Unfathomed mystery! [winks 

Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods and 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 

Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 

Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 

And he’ll never know 
Where the summers go ; 

He need not laugh, for he’ll find it so. 

Who can tell what a baby thinks? 

Who can follow the gossamer links 
By which the manikin feels its way 
Out from the shores of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of the day ? 

Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony; 

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the barks of little souls, — 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 


And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide! 

What does he think of his mother’s eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother’s hair ? 

What of the cradle-roof, that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

What does he think of his mother’s breasts, 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight, 

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, 
With a tenderness she never can tell, 

Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds— 

Words she has learned to murmur well? 

Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep! 

I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 

Over his brow and over his lips, 

Out of his little finger-tips! 

Softly sinking, down he goes ! 

Down he goes! down he goes! 

See! he’s hushed in sweet repose. 


THAT YOUNG WOMAN. 

FROM “ TITCOMB’S LETTERS.” 


I F any young woman, in a boarding-school 
or out of it, should find herself a subject 
of any of the diseases which I have 
pointed out, she should seek a remedy at once. 
If she finds herself moved to go shopping for 
the simple purpose of talking with the clerks, 
let her remember that she is not only doing 
an immodest and unbecoming thing, but that 
she is manifesting the symptoms of that which 
is a dangerous mental disease. To begin with, 
she is doing a very silly thing. 

Again, she is doing that which compromises 
her in the eyes of all sensible young men. If 
she finds herself possessed with unaccountable 
proclivities to a mineral diet, or a foggy out- 
reaching for something or other that mani¬ 
fests itself in profound confidences with one 


similarly afflicted, or any one of a hundred 
absorbing sentimentalisms, let her remember 
that she is mentally and morally sick, and 
that, for her own comfort and peace, she 
should seek at once for a remedy. 

Her only safety is in seeking direct contact 
with a healthier and more advanced life, and 
by securing healthful occupation for all her 1 
powers, intellectual and physical. Dreams, 
imaginations, silly talk and twaddle about 
young men,yearnings after sympathetic hearts, 
the dandling of precious little thoughts about 
beaux on the knees of fancy, and all that sort 
of nonsense should be discarded—thrust out 
of the sacred precincts of the mind—as if 
they were so many foul reptiles. Get out of 
this feverish and unhealthy frame just as soon 





JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. 


78 

as possible, ami walk forth into a more natural, 
dignified, and womanly life. 

A young woman at this age should remem¬ 
ber that her special business is to fit herself 
for the duties of life. I would not deny to 
her the society of young men, when she has 
time for it, and a proper opportunity, but she 
should remember that she has nothing to do 
with beaux, nothing to do with thoughts of 
and calculations for marriage, nothing to do 
but to become, in the noblest way, a woman. 
She should remember that she is too young to 
know her own mind, and that, as a general 
thing, it is not worth knowing. 

Girlish attachments and girlish ideas of 


| men are the silliest things in all the world. 
If you do not believe it, ask your mothers. 
Ninety-nine times in a hundred they will tell 
you that they did not marry the boy they 
fancied, before they had a right to fancy any¬ 
body. If you dream of matrimony for amuse¬ 
ment, and for the sake of killing time, I have 
this to say, that, considering the kind of young 
men you fancy, you can do quite as well by 
hanging a hat upon a hitching-post, and 
I worshipping it through your chamber win¬ 
dow. Besides, it is during this period of un¬ 
settled notions and really shifting attachments 
that a habit of flirting and a love of it are 
I generated. 


GIVE US MEN. 


G OD give us men, a time like this de¬ 
mands 

Great hearts, strong minds, true faith 
and ready hands: 

Men whom the lust of office cannot kill; 

Men whom the spoils of office cannot 
buy; 

Men who possess opinions and will; 

Men who love honor; men who will not 
lie; 


Men who can stand before a demagogue, 

And brave his treacherous flatteries without 
winking; 

Tall men, sunburnt, who live above the fog, 
In public duty, and in private thinking; 

For while the rabble, with its thumb-worn 

creeds, 

Its large professions, and its little deeds, 
Mingled in selfish strife, lo ! freedom weeps, 
Wrong rules the land and waiting justice sleeps. 


OLD DANIEL GRAY. 


Y ET there were love and tenderness within 
him, 

And I am told that when his Charlie died, 
Nor nature’s need nor gentle words could win 
him 

From his fond vigils at the sleeper’s side. 

And when they came to bury little Charlie, 
They found fresh dew drops sprinkled in 
his hair, 

And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, 
And guessed, but did not know, who placed 
it there. 

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer; 

He thought that in some strange, unlooked- 
for way, 


His mighty friend in heaven, the great Re¬ 
deemer, 

Would honor him with wealth some golden 
day. 

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit, 
Until in death his patient eye grew 
dim, 

And his Redemer called him to inherit 

The heaven of wealth long garnered up for 
him. 

So, if I ever win a home in heaven, 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and 

P r ay, 

In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 









Edward Everett. 

Eminent Classic Writer and Orator. 


NE of the most famous of American scholars and rhetoricians, 
was born in Dorchester, near Boston, in 1794, and at the early 
age of thirteen entered Harvard University, where he graduated 
in 1811, with an extraordinary reputation for abilities and ac¬ 
quirements. He at first turned his attention to law, but yield¬ 
ing to the wishes of his friends decided to study theology, and 
had been two years in the divinity school at Cambridge, when Boston was 
thrown into mourning by the death of the youthful and eloquent Buck¬ 
minster, and he was chosen to succeed him as minister of the church in 
Brattle Street. 

He was now nineteen years of age, and his society, perhaps the 
largest and most intellectual in the city, had been accustomed to hear one 
of the most remarkable orators of modern times ; but his success was still 
such as to justify the most sanguine anticipations of his friends. In 
addition to his ordinary and arduous professional labors, in the first eight 
months of his ministry he wrote and published, in a volume of nearly 
five hundred pages, a very able “ Defence of Christianity,” against a work 
which had then just appeared under the title of “ The Grounds of Chris, 
tianity Examined, by Comparing the New Testament with the Old.” 

In 1815, before he was twenty-one years of age, he was elected pro¬ 
fessor of the Greek Language and Literature in the University, with 
permission to visit Europe for the improvement of his health, which had 
been impaired by severe application to his pastoral duties. Having been 
absent about four years and a half, he returned to the United States and 
immediately entered npon the duties of his professorship at Cambridge, 
where he delivered courses of lectures on the History of Greek Litera¬ 
ture, on Antiquities, and on Ancient Art, and published a Greek Grammar, 
from the German of Buttmann, and a Greek Reader, on the basis of the 
one by Jacobs. 

The “ North American Review ” had now passed from the possession 
of the club under whose auspices it was established, and at the request of 
the new proprietors Mr. Everett became its editor. The first number 

79 




80 


EDWARD EVERETT. 


issued under his direction was that for January, 1820, and he conducted 
it with an industry and ability which soon won for it an unprecedented 
popularity. 

Having entered the field of politics Mr. Everett was sent to Congress, 
and for ten years represented Massachusetts iu the lower House. In 1836 
he was elected Governor of his State, and was re-elected three times in 
succession. In 1841 he was appointed Minister to the Court of London 
and continued for five years. On his return to the United States he was 
elected to the presidency of Harvard University in 1846, and resigned 
in 1849. 

Upon the death of Daniel Webster he was made Secretary of State 
under President Fillmore, and afterward was chosen United States Senator 
to represent Massachusetts. 

The later years of his life were devoted to the delivery of his magnifi¬ 
cent oration on Washington, the proceeds of which, amounting to $57,000^ 
were devoted to the completion of the Washington Monument at onr 
national capitol. Other orations were delivered in aid of various objects 
and large sums of money were realized. Mr. Everett died of appoplexy 
January 15th, 1865. President Lincoln ordered appropriate honors to 
his memory. 

As far back as 1836 Mr. Everett published a collection of twenty- 
seven “ Orations and Speeches ” delivered by him on various occasions in 
the preceding eleven years. It embraced, with others, those on the 
motives to intellectual exertion in America, the landing of the Pilgrims, 
the arrival of Winthrop, the battles of Concord, Lexington, Bunker Hill, 
the Bloody Brook, and those which he delivered at public dinners given 
to him at Nashville, in Tennessee, Lexington, in Kentucky, and other 
places, during his tour through the Valley of the Mississippi to New 
Orleans in 1829. His speeches on political occasions, and historical and 
literary discourses delivered after 1836, would fill another volume equal 
in extent, variety and interest. 

As an orator he had very few equals. He was graceful and fervid in 
a remarkable degree, and his ready copiousness and felicity of illustration 
and quotation showed how extensive and thorough had been his research 
how retentive was his memory, and with what rapidity were made the. 
decisions of his taste. He was eminently picturesque in grouping and 
narration, and his classical allusions had the charm of perfect familiarity 
with the richest stores of learning. 


EDWARD EVERETT. 


81 


THE MAYFLOWER. 


M ETHINKS, I see it now, that one sol¬ 
itary, adventurous vessel, the “ May¬ 
flower” of a forlorn hope, freighted 
with the prospects of a future state, and 
bound across the unknown sea. I behold it 
pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the 
uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and 
set, and weeks and months pass, and winter 
surprises them on the deep, but brings them 
not the sight of the wislied-for shore. I see 
them now, scantily supplied with provisions, 
crowded almost to suffocation in their ill- 
stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a 
circuitous route; and now, driven in fury 
before the raging tempest, in their scarcely 
seaworthy vessel. The awful voice of the 
storm howls through the rigging. The labor¬ 
ing masts seem straining from their base; the 
dismal sound of pumps is heard ; the ship 
leaps, as it were, madly from billow to billow ; 
the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing 
floods o\ , sr the floating deck, and beats with 
deadening weight against the staggering vessel. 

I see them escape from these perils, pursuing 
their all but desperate undertaking, and landed 
at last, after a five-months’ passage, on the 
ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, weak and ex¬ 
hausted from the voyage, poorly armed, scan¬ 
tily provisioned, depending on the charity of 
their ship-master for a draught of beer on 
board, drinking nothing but water on shore, 
without shelter, without means, surrounded by 
hostile tribes. 


Shut now the volume of history, and tell 
me, on any principle of human probability, 
what shall be the fate of this handful of 
adventurers ? Tell me, men of military science, 
in how many months they were all swept off 
by the the thirty savage tribes enumerated 
within the boundaries of New England ? Tell 
me, politician, how long did this shadow of 
a colony, on which your conventions and 
treaties had not smiled, languish on the dis¬ 
tant coast ? 

Student of history, compare for me the 
baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the 
abandoned adventures of other times and 
find the parallel of this? Was it the winter 
storm, beating upon the houseless heads of 
women and children ? Was it hard labor and 
spare meals? Was it disease? Was it the 
tomahawk? Wa3 it the deep malady of a 
blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a 
broken heart, aching in its last moments at 
the recollections of the loved and left beyond 
the sea ? Was it some or all of them united 
that hurried this forsaken company to their 
melancholy fate? 

And is it possible, that neither of these 
causes, that all combined were able to blast 
this bud of hope! Is it possible that from 
a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, 
not so much of admiration as of pity, there 
has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth 
so wonderful, a reality so important, a promise 
yet to be fulfilled so glorious! 


MARTIN 

N the solemn loneliness in which Luther 
found himself, he called around him not 
so much the masters of the Greek and 
Latin wisdom through the study of the ancient 
languages, as he did the mass of his own 
countrymen, by his translation of the Bible. 
It would have been a matter of tardy impres¬ 
sion and remote efficacy, had he done no more 
than awake from the dusty alcoves of the 
libraries the venerable shades of the classic 
teachers. He roused up a population of 
6 


LUTHER. 

living, sentient men, his countrymen, his 
brethren. 

He might have written and preached in 
Latin to his dying day, and the elegant Italian 
scholars, champions of the church, would have 
answered him in Latin better than his own ; 
and with the mass of the people, the whole 
affair would have been a contest between 
angry and loquacious priests. “ Awake all 
antiquity from the sleep of the libraries ! ” 
He awoke all Germany and half of Europe 





82 


EDWARD EVERETT. 


from the scholastic sleep of an ignorance worse 
than death. He took into his hands not the 
oaten pipe of the classic muse; he moved to 
his great work, not 

To the Dorian mood 
Of flutes and soft recorders— 

He grasped the iron trumpet of his mother 
tongue—the good old Saxon from which our 
own is descended, the language of noble 
thought and high resolve—and blew a blast 


that shook the nations from Rome to Orkneys. 
Sovereign, citizen, and peasant started at the 
sound: and, in a few short years the poor 
monk, who bad begged his bread for a pious 
canticle in the streets of Eisenach—no longer 
friendless—no longer solitary—was sustained 
by victorious armies, countenanced by princes, 
and, what is a thousand times more precious 
than the brightest crown in Christendom, 
revered as a sage, a benefactor, and a spiritual 
parent, at the firesides of millions of his hum¬ 
ble and grateful countrymen. 


THE FATHERS OF THE REPUBLIC. 


T O be cold and breathless, to feel not and 
speak not—this is not the end of exist¬ 
ence to the men who have breathed 
their spirits into the institutions of their 
country, who have stamped their characters 
on the pillars of the age, who have poured 
their heart’s blood into the channels of the 
public prosperity. 

Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon 
sacred height, is Warren dead ? Can you not 
still see him—not pale and prostrate, the 
blood of his gallant heart pouring out of his 
ghastly wound, but moving resplendent over 


the field of honor, with the rose of heaven 
upon his cheek, and the fire of liberty in his eye? 

Tell me, ye who make your pious pilgrim¬ 
age to the shades of Vernon, is Washington 
indeed shut up in the cold and narrow house? 
That which made these men, and men like 
these, cannot die. 

The hand that traced the charter of Inde¬ 
pendence is, indeed, motionless; the eloquent 
lips that - sustained it are hushed; but the 
lofty spirits that conceived, resolved and main¬ 
tained it, and which alone, to such men, make 
it life to live—these cannot expire. 


AMERICAN EXPERIMENT 

NE might almost think, without extrava¬ 
gance, that the departed wise and 
good, of all places and times, are look¬ 
ing down from their happy seats to witness 
what shall now be done by us; that they who 
lavished their treasures, and their blood, of old 
—who spake and wrote, who labored, fought 
and perished, in the one great cause of freedom 
and truth—are now hanging, from their orbs 
on high, over the last solemn experiment of 
humanity. 

As I have wandered over the spots once the 
scene of their labors, aud mused among the 
prostrate columns of their senate-houses and 
forums, I have seemed almost to hear a voice 
from the tombs of departed ages, from the 
sepulchres of the nations which died before the 


OF SELF-GOVERNMENT. 

sight. They exhort us, they adjure us, to be 
faithful to our trust. 

They implore us, by the long trials of strug¬ 
gling humanity ; by the blessed memory of the 
departed; by the dear faith which has been 
plighted by pure hands to the holy cause of 
truth and man; by the awful secrets of the 
prison-house, where the sons of freedom have 
been immured; by the noble heads which have 
been brought to the block; by the wrecks of 
time, by the eloquent ruins of nations—they 
conjure us not to quench the light which is ris¬ 
ing on the world. 

Greece cries to us by the convulsed lips of 
her poisoned, dying Demosthenes; and Rome 
pleads with us in the mute persuasion of her 
mangled Tully. 








Bayard Taylor. 

Traveller and Poet. 


UCCESSFUL as a poet, a novelist, journalist and traveller, Mr. 
Taylor is a fine type of what may be called Yankee genius, 
which has a remarkable power of adaptation. He touched many 
things, illustrating the old Latin saying respecting Apollo, 
“ He touched nothing that he did not adorn.’’ 

Bayard Taylor was born January nth, 1825, in the village 
of Kennett Square, Chester County, Penna., of ancestors who formed part 
of the original emigration with Penn. Educated at the usual country 
schools, he became, at the age of seventeen, an apprentice in a printing 
office at the county borough of West Chester. His leisure time was spent 
in the acquisition of Latin and French, and writing occasional verses, 
which met with a favorable reception, as published in the New York Mir¬ 
ror, and Graham’s Magazine, edited the one by Willis, and the other by 
Griswold. 

His success led him to collect his effusions, which were published in 
a volume entitled, Ximena and other Poems, in 1844. This gave him 
reputation sufficient to secure employment as a contributor to several 
leading newspapers, while on a tour of Europe he had projected. With 
the proceeds of his volume, one hundred dollars advanced by Chandler, of 
the U. S. Gazette, and Patterson, of the Saturday Evening Post, and forty 
dollars for some additional poems, he started on his first travels, continued 
at intervals, until he had visited every quarter of the globe, and become 
the greatest traveller, for his years, that ever lived. 

He spent two years in visiting England, Scotland, Germany, Swit¬ 
zerland, Italy, and France, at an expense of only five hundred dollars, 
travelling with a relative, and mostly on foot. On his return, in 1846, he 
reprinted his letters to the papers in “ Views-a-foot, or Europe Seen with 
Knapsack and Staff.” The novelty of his mode of travelling, the youth 
of the narrator, and the unusual vigor and freshness of the style, with the 
quick perceptions of an intelligent American mind, combined to create an 

83 




84 


BAYARD TAYLOR. 


extraordinary demand for the volume, and established his reputation as a 
writer and a traveller. 

In February, 1848, he became a permanent contributor to the “New 
York Tribune,” and shortly after published his “ Rhymes of Travel.” In 
1849, h e became part proprietor, and one of the editors of the “ Tribune.” 

In the summer of 1851, he published his fifth volume, and third of 
poems, “ Book Romances,” “ Lyrics and Songs,” and commenced a pro¬ 
tracted Eastern tour. He arrived in New York, December, 1853, after an 
absence of two years and four months, and 50,000 miles of travel. His 
graphic and entertaining histor}^ of this great journey, published in let¬ 
ters to the “ Tribune,” was enlarged and published in three works : “ A 
Journey to Central Africa“ The Lands of the Saracen ;” and “ India, 
China and Japan.” 

In 1854, he published his “Poems of the Orient,” and in 1855 his 
“ Poems of Home and Travel.” 

In July, 1856, he started on a fourth journey, during which he visited 
Sweden, Lapland, Norway, Dalmatia, Greece, Crete, and Russia. In 
November, 1857, he published, in London and New York, “Northern 
Travel,” the journal of the above trip, and returned home in October, 
1858. He next published “ Greece and Russia,” in 1859, anc ^ the same 
year a volume of accumulated material and sketches, entitled “ Home and 
Abroad,” of which a second series was issued in 1862 ; and a similar vol¬ 
ume, entitled “ Byeways of Europe,” in 1868, which, with a volume of 
sketches of travel in the gold regions west of the Mississippi, completes 
his record of travel. His earlier volumes of travel, though published 
twenty-five years ago, are still called for, as indispensables in public and 
private libraries. 

Very few books, either of Travel or Fiction, thus retain their place 
so long, and continue in active demand, amidst all the competition of 
modern book-making, and the inference is not unreasonable that these 
volumes of adventure, in almost every corner of the earth, possess some 
lasting interest and vitality which makes them worthy of a permanent 
place in our literature. 

In 1863, Mr. Taylor commenced a new vein, that of Fiction ; his 
Novels were welcomed even more largely than the Travels. The first 
was “ Hannah Thurston,” and, by many, thought to be his best: its 
quiet, but truthful pictures of real life seemed painted from the life with 
great vigor and freshness. His Tales will rank with those of Hawthorne, 



WILLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS 

(OLIVER OPTIC) 










pplNCOT T 


SARAH JANE LI 


Lockwood 




Helen Hun. 


FRANCES 


' T Jackson 















BAYARD TAYLOR. 


85 


Longfellow, and Mrs. Stowe; they are delightful and refreshing reading, 
crowded with life-like characters, full of delicate and subtle sympathies, 
with ideas the most opposite to his own, and lighted up throughout with 
that playful humor which suggests always wisdom rather than mere fun; 
they are a great rest after the crowded artistic effects and the conventional 
interests of even the better kinds of English novels. 

The characteristics of Mr. Taylor’s writings are, in his poems, ease 
of expression, with a careful selection of poetical capabilities, a full, ani¬ 
mated style, with a growing attention to art and condensation. His prose 
is equable and clear, in the flowing style, the narrative of a genial, healthy 
observer of the many manners of the world which he saw in the most 
remarkable portions of the four quarters. 

Mr. Taylor was twice married, the second time in Germany. In 1877 
he was appointed by President Hayes United States Minister to Berlin, 
and while serving in this capacity died December 19th, 1878. 


PROPOSAL. 


T HE violet loves a sunny bank, 

The cowslip loves the lea, 

The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
And I love thee. 

The sunshine kisses mount and vale, 
The stars they kiss the sea, 


The west winds kiss the clover blooms, 

But I kiss thee. 

The oriole weds his mottled mate, 

The lily’s bride o’ the bee, 

Heaven’s marriage ring is round the earth, 
Shall I wed thee ? 


CHRISTMAS IN GERMANY. 


I T was a pleasure to go out every evening 
and see the children rushing to and fro, 
shouting and seeking out toys from the 
booths, and talking all the time of the Christ¬ 
mas that was so near. The poor people went 
by with their little presents hid under their 
cloaks, lest their children might see them ; 
every heart was glad and every countenance 
wore a smile of secret pleasure. 

Finally the day before Christmas arrived. 
The streets were so full I could scarce make 
my way through, and the sale of trees went 
on more rapidly than ever. These were com¬ 
monly branches of pine or fir, set upright in 
a little miniature garden of moss. When the 


lamps were lighted at night, our street had 
the appearance of an illuminated garden. We 
were prohibited from entering the rooms up¬ 
stairs in which the grand ceremony was to 
take place, being obliged to take our seats in 
those arranged for the guests, and wait with 
impatience the hour when Christ-kindchen 
should call. Several relations of the family 
came, and what was more agreeable, they 
brought with them five or six children. I 
was anxious to see how they would view the 
ceremony. 

Finally, in the middle of an interesting 
conversation, we heard the bell ringing up¬ 
stairs. We all started up, and made for the 






86 


BAYARD TAYLOR. 


door. I ran up the steps with the children at 
my heels, and at the top met a blaze of light 
coming from the open door, that dazzled me. 
In each room stood a great table, on which 
the presents were arranged, amid flowers and 
wreathes. From the center rose the beautiful 
Christmas tree covered with wax tapers to the 
very top, which made it nearly as light as 
day, while every bough was hung with sweet¬ 
meats and gilded nuts. The children ran 
shouting around the table, hunting their pres¬ 
ents, while the older persons had theirs pointed 
out to them. I had quite a little library of 
German authors as my share; and many of 
the others received quite valuable gifts. 

But how beautiful the heart-felt joy that 
shone on every countenance! As each one 


discovered he embraced the givers, and all 
was a scene of the purest feelings. It is a 
glorious feast, this Christmas time! What a 
chorus from happy hearts went up on that even¬ 
ing to Heaven! Full of poetry and feeling 
and glad associations, it is here anticipated 
with joy, and leaves a pleasant memory behind 
it. We may laugh at such simple festivals 
at home, and prefer to shake ourselves loose 
from every shackle that bears the rust of the 
Past, but we would certainly be happier if 
some of these beautiful old customs were better 
honored. They renew the bond of feeling 
between families and friends, and strengthen 
their kindly sympathy ; even life-long friends 
require occasions of this kind to freshen the 
wreath that binds them together. 


BEDOUIN LOVE SONG. 


F ' ROM the desert I come to thee, 

On a stallion shod with fire; 

And the winds are left behind 
In the speed of my desire. 

Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry : 

I love thee, I love but thee! 

With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold. 

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 

Look from thy window, and see 
My passion and my pain! 

I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 

Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
With the heat of my burning sigh, 


And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 

My steps are nightly driven, 

By the fever in my breast, 

To hear from thy lattice breathed 
The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 

And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grows cold. 

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 


THE LONG AGO. 


O H! a wonderful stream is the river of Time 
As it runs through the realm of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical 
rhyme, 

And a broader sweep and a surge sublime, 

As it blends in the ocean of years! 


How the winters are drifti ng like flakes of snow, 
And the summers like birds between, 

And the years in the sheaf, how they come and 
they go 

And the river’s breast, with its ebb and its flow, 
As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! 







BAYARD TAYLOR. 


87 


There’s a magical isle up the river Time, 
Where the softest of airs are playing, 
There’s a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes.with the roses are straying, 

And the name of this isle is the “ Long Ago.” 

And we bury our treasures there; 

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, 
There are heaps of dust—oh! we loved them so— 
There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

.There are fragments of songs that nobody sings. 

There are parts of an infant’s prayer, 
There’s a lute unswept and a harp without 
strings, 


There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 
And the garments our loved used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved when the fairy 
shore 

By the fitful mirage is lifted in air, [roar 
And we sometime hear through the turbulent 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 
When the wind down the river was fair. 

Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle, 
All the day of our life until night: 

And when evening glows with its beautiful 
smile, 

And our eyes are closing in slumbers a while. 
May a lovelier isle be in sight. 


THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 


i C IVE us a song! ” the soldiers cried, 

\_J The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps 
allied 

Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 

Lay grim and threatening under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said: 

“We storm the forts to-morrow; 

Sing while we may, another day 
' Will bring enough of sorrow.” 

They lay along the battery’s side, 

Below the smoking cannon ; 

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain’s glory: 

Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang “ Annie Laurie.” 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 


Rose like an anthem, rich and strong— 
Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
But as the song grew louder, 
Something upon the soldier’s cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset’s embers. 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell. 
And bellowing of the mortars! 

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim 
For a singer dumb and gory ; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of “Annie Laurie.” 

Sleep, soldiers !• still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing; 

The bravest are the tenderest— 

The loving are the daring. 





Washington Irving. 

“ Father of American Literature.” 


IS distinguished American author and humorist, bom in the 
city of New York, April 3, 1783, was a son of William Irving, a 
native of Scotland. About 1800 he left school and commenced 
the study of law. For the benefit of his health, he took in 1804 
a voyage to Europe, visited France, Italy, Switzerland, and 
England, and returned in 1806. 

Soon after his return be was admitted to the bar; but he preferred to 
devote himself to literary pursuits, and never practised law. In conj unction 
with his brother William and with James K. Paulding, he issued in 1807 
a humorous and satirical magazine, entitled “ Salmagundi, or the Whim- 
Whams and Opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, Esq., and Others.” Of 
this amusing and popular work only twenty numbers were issued. 

He published in 1809 another humorous work, the “ History of New 
York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker,” in which he was assisted by his 
brother Peter. It was very favorably received. “ I have never,” says 
Sir Walter Scott, “ read anything so closely resembling the style of Dean 
Swift as the Annals of Diedrich Knickerbocker.” 

In 1810 he became a silent partner with his brothers in an extensive 
commercial house in New York. He sailed in 1815 to Europe, where he 
remained many years, and in 1817 visited Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford) 
who became his constant friend. He was reduced to poverty by the failure 
of the firm of which he was a member, in 1817. His next important 
work was “The Sketch-Book” (1818), by Geoffrey Crayon, which was 
written in England. It enjoj^ed great popularity, and raised Irving to 
the highest rank of American authors. Lord Jeffrey, in the “ Edinburgh 
Review” for August, 1820, commended “The Sketch-Book” as “written 
throughout with the greatest care and accuracy, and worked up to great 
purity and beauty of diction on the model of the most elegant and polished 
of our native writers.” 

He published in London in 1822, “ Bracebridge Hall, or the Humor- 




WASHINGTON IRVING. 


89 


ists,” which was received with great favor both in England and America. 
Commenting on this work, Lord Jeffrey says: “We happen to be very 
intense and sensitive admirers of those soft harmonies of studied speech 
in which this author is apt to indulge himself, and have caught ourselves 
oftener than we shall confess, neglecting his excellent matter to lap our¬ 
selves in the liquid music of his periods.” For his “ Tales of a Traveller ” 
(1824), Murray, the London publisher, gave him $7,500 before he saw the 
manuscript. 

Mr. Irving afterwards spent some years in France and Spain, where 
he composed his “ History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher 
Columbus” (4 vols., 1828), which was very successful. “This is one of 
those works,” says Alexander H. Everett, “ which are at the same time 
the delight of readers and the despair of critics. It is as nearly perfect 
as any work well can be.” In 1829 produced an imaginative and 
romantic work entitled “ The Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada, from 
the Manuscripts of Fray Antonia Agapida.” 

He was appointed secretary of legation to the American embassy at 
London in 1829, an< ^ returned to the United States in 1832. Among his 
later works are “ The Alhambra (1832), a “ Tour on the Prairies” (1835) 
“Astoria” (3 vols., 1836), “ The Adventures of Captain Bonneville ” (2 
vols., 1837), “ Oliver Goldsmith, a Biography ” (1849), “ Mahomet and 
His Successors ” (1850), and “ The Life of George Washington ” (5 vols., 
1:855-59). He was minister to Spain from 1842 to 1846. He passed the 
latter part of his life at Sunnyside, on the Hudson River, where he died, 
November 28th, 1859. He was never married. 

For an easy elegance of style, Irving has no superior, perhaps no 
equal among the prose writers of America. If Hawthorne excels him in 
variety, in earnestness and in force, he is perhaps inferior to Irving in 
facility and grace; while he can make no claim to that genial, lambent 
humor which beams in almost every page of “ Geoffrey Crayon.” Whether 
in writing “ Rip Van Winkle ” or the story of Columbus, his pen always 
has the same betwitching charm and its product is rich beyond rivalry. 

James Russell Lowell, himself one of America’s admired authors, 
pays Irving this unique compliment: 

What! Irving? thrice welcome warm heart and fine brain, 

You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, 

And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there 
Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair ; 


90 


WASHINGTON IRVING. 


Nay, don’t be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, 

I shan’t run directly against my own preaching, 

And having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, 

Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; 

But allow me to speak what I honestly feel, 

To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, 

Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, 

With the whole of that partnership’s stock and good-will, 

Mix well, and while stirring, hum o’er, as a spell, 

The “ fine old English Gentleman,” simmer it well, 

Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain, 

That only the finest and clearest remain. 

Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives 
From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, 
And you’ll find a choice nature not wholly deserving 
A name either English or Yankee—just Irving. 


THE ALHAMBRA 

HE moon, which then was invisible, has 
gradually gained upon the nights, and 
now rolls in full splendor above the 
towers, pouring a flood of tempered light into 
every court and hall. The garden beneath 
my window is gently lighted up, the orange 
and citron trees are tipped with silver, the 
fountain sparkles in the moonbeams, and even 
the blush of the rose is faintly visible. 

I have sat for hours at my window inhaling 
the sweetness of the garden, and musing on the 
checkered features of those whose history is 
dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials 
around. Sometimes I have issued forth at 
midnight when every thing was quiet, and 
have wandered over the whole building. 
Who can do justice to a moonlight night in 
such a climate and in such a place? The 
temperature of an Andalusian midnight, in 
summer, is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted 
up into a purer atmosphere; there is a serenity 
of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity of 
frame, that render mere existence enjoyment. 

The effect of moonlight, too, on the Alham¬ 
bra has something like enchantment. Every 
rent and chasm of time, every mouldering tint 
and weather-stain, disappears, the marble re¬ 
sumes its original whiteness, the long colon¬ 
nades brighten in the moonbeams, the halls 
are illuminated with a softened radiance, until 
the whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted 


BY MOONLIGHT. 

palace of an Arabian tale. At such time I have 
ascended to the little pavilion, called the 
Queen’s Toilette, to enjoy its varied and exten¬ 
sive prospect. To the right, the snowy summits 
of the Sierra Nevada would gleam like silver 
clouds against the darker firmament, and all 
the outlines of the mountain would be soft¬ 
ened, yet delicately defined. My delight, 
however, would be to lean over the parapet 
of the tocador, and gaze down upon Granada, 
spread out like a map below me, all buried 
in deep repose, and its white palaces and con¬ 
vents sleeping as it were in the moonshine. 

Sometimes I would hear the faint sounds of 
castanets from some party of dancers lingering 
in the Alameda; at other times I have heard 
the dubious tones of a guitar, and the notes of 
a single voice rising from some solitary street, 
and have pictured to myself some youthful 
cavalier serenading his lady’s window—a gab 
lant custom of former days, but now sadly on 
the decline, except in the remote towns and 
villages of Spain. 

Such are the scenes that have detained me 1 
for many an hour loitering about the courts 
and balconies of the castle, enjoying that mix¬ 
ture of reverie and sensation which steals away 
existence in a Southern climate—and it has 
been almost morning before I have retired to 
my bed, and been lulled to sleep by the falling 
waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa. 






WASHINGTON IRVING. 


91 


THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

FROM “THE SKETCH BOOK.” 


T HE sound of casual footsteps had ceased 
from the abbey. I could only hear, now 
and then, the distant voice of the priest 
repeating the evening service, and the faint 
responses of the choir; these paused for a 
time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the 
desertion and obscurity that were gradually 
prevailing around, gave a deeper and more 
solemn interest to the place: 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father’s counsel—nothing’s heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 

Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring 
organ burst upon the ear, falling with double 
and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it 
were, huge billows of sound. How well do 
their volume and grandeur accord with this 
mighty building! With what pomp do they 
swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their 
awful harmony through these caves of death, 
and make the silent sepulchre vocal! And 
now they rise in triumph and acclamation, 


heaving higher and higher their accordant 
notes, and piling sound on sound. And now 
they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
break out into sweet gushes of melody; they 
soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem 
to play about these lofty vaults like the pure 
airs of heaven. 

Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling 
thunders, compressing air into music, and roll¬ 
ing it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn 
cadences! What solemn sweeping concords! 
It grows more and more dense and powerful— 
it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very 
walls—the ear is stunned — the senses are over¬ 
whelmed. And now it is winding up in 
full jubilee—it is rising from the earth to 
heaven—The very soul seems rapt away and 
floated upwards on this swelling tide of har¬ 
mony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of rev¬ 
erie which a strain of music is apt sometimes 
to inspire: the shadows of evening were grad¬ 
ually thickening round me; the monuments 
began to cast deeper and deeper gloom; and 
the distant clock again gave token of the 
slowly waning day. 


BROKEN 

HALL I confess it?—I believe in broken 
hearts, and the possibility of dying of 
disappointed love. I do not, however, 
consider it a malady often fatal to my own 
sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down 
many a lovely woman into an early grave. 

How many bright eyes grow dim—how 
many soft cheeks grow pale—how many lovely 
forms fade away into the tomb, and none can 
L-ell the cause that blighted their loveliness! 
As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and 
cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on 
its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to hide 
from the world the pangs of wounded affection. 
The love of a delicate female is always shy 
and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely 
breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, 


HEARTS. 

she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and 
there lets it cower and brood among the ruins 
of her peace. 

With her the desire of the heart has failed. 
The great charm of existence is at an end. 
She neglects all the cheerful exercises which 
gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and 
send the tide of life in healthful currents 
through the veins. Her rest is broken—th*? 
sweet refreshment of sleep is poised by melan¬ 
choly dreams—“ dry sorrow drinks her blood,’* 
until her enfeebled frame sinks under the 
slighted external injury, 

Look for her, after a little while, and you 
will find friendship weeping over her untimely 
grave, and wondering that one who but lately 
glowed with all the radiance of health and 





92 


WASHINGTON IRVING. 


beauty, should so speedily be brought down to 
“ darkness and the worm.” You will be told 
ot‘ some wintry chill, some casual indisposition 
that laid her low—but no one knows of the 
mental malady that previously sapped her 
strength, and made her so easy a prey to the 
spoiler. She is like some tender tree, the pride 
and beauty of the grove; graceful in its form, 
bright in its foliage, but with the worm prey¬ 


ing at its heart. We find it suddenly wither¬ 
ing when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. 
We see it dropping its branches to the earth 
and shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted and 
perished away, it falls even in the stillness of 
the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful 
ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or 
thunderbolt that could have smitten it with 
decay. 


PORTRAIT OF 

HE renowned Wouter (or Walter) Van 
Twiller was descended from a long line 
of Dutch burgomasters, who had succes¬ 
sively dozed away their lives, and grown fat 
upon the bench of magistracy in Rotterdam, 
and who had comported themselves with such 
singular wisdom and propriety that they were 
never either heard or talked of—which, next 
to being universally applauded, should be the 
object of ambition of all magistrates and rul¬ 
ers. 

There are two opposite ways by which some 
men make a figure in the world: one by talk¬ 
ing faster than they think ; and the other by 
holding their tongues and not thinking at all. 
By the first, many a smatterer acquires the 
reputation of a man of quick parts; by the 
other, many a dunderpate, like the owl, the 
stupidest of birds, comes to be considered the 
very type of wisdom. This, by-the-way, is a 
casual remark, which I would not for the uni¬ 
verse have it thought I apply to Governor Van 
Twiller. It is true he was a man shut up 
within himself, like an oyster, and rarely 
spoke except in monosyllables; but then it was 
allowed he seldom said a foolish thing. 

So invincible was his gravity that he was 
never known to laugh, or even to smile, 
through the whole course of a long and pros¬ 
perous life. Nay, if a joke were uttered in his 
presence that set light-minded hearers in a 
roar, it was observed to throw him into a state 
of perplexity. Sometimes he would deign to 
inquire into the matter; and when, after much 
explanation, the joke Avas made as plain as a 
pikestaff, he would continue to smoke his pipe 
in silence, and at length, knocking out the 


A DUTCHMAN. 

ashes, would exclaim, “ Well! I see nothing in 
all that to laugh about! ” 

The person of this illustrious old gentleman 
was formed and proportioned as though it had 
been moulded by the hands of some cunning 
Dutch statuary, as a model of majesty and 
lordly grandeur. Ho Avas exactly five feet six 
inches in height, and six feet five inches in cir¬ 
cumference. His head was a perfect sphere, 
and of such stupendous dimensions, that dame 
Nature, Avith all her sex’s ingenuity, would 
have been puzzled to construct a neck capable 
of supporting it; AvhereforesheAvisely declined 
the attempt, and settled it firmly on the back 
of his back-bone, just between the shoulders. 

His body was oblong, and particularly capa¬ 
cious at bottom ; Avhich Avas wisely ordered by 
Providence, seeing that he was a man of 
sedentary habits, and very averse to the idle 
labor of Avalking. His legs Avere short, but 
sturdy in proportion to the Aveight they had to 
sustain ; so that Avhen erect he had not a little 
the appearance of a beer-barrel on skids. His 
face—that infallible index of the mind-—pre¬ 
sented a vast expanse, unfurroAved by any of 
those lines and angles which disfigure the 
human countenance Avith what is termed 
expression. Two small gray eyes twinkled 
feebly in the midst, like two stars of lesser 
magnitude in a hazy firmament; and his full- 
fed cheeks, which seemed to have taken toll of 
everything that Avent into his mouth, were 
curiously mottled and streaked with dusky 
red, like a spitzenberg apple. 

His habits were as regular as his person. 
Such was the renowned Wouter Van Twiller 
—a true philosopher. 


































MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 

(iVARION HARLAND) 






John Greenleaf Whittier. 

The Bard of Freedom. 


HE “ Quaker Poet,” as lie is sometimes called, stands in a class 
by himself. The spirit of song was in him, but it was con- 
tributive to the more masterly spirit of reform. He sings of 
the wrongs of the oppressed; he fans the upper air with his 
eagle flight for freedom; he mourns the downfall of men who 
bend the craven knee to a political tyrant; and then he turns 
to the outward beauties, the lowland landscapes and mountain grandeurs 
of his own New England, and appears to have entered a new kingdom. 
He was both a reformer and a poet. 

Still the Quaker element, its even poise, its unruffled calm, and its 
adoration of peace, asserted itself. And he was fully persuaded he was 
right. With one jibe of his pen he could put to rout all the armies of earth. 

“ Hate hath no harm for love,” so ran the song. 

“ And peace, unweaponed, conquers every wrong.” 

The ancestors of Mr. Whittier settled at an early period in the town 
of Haverhill, on the banks of the Merrimac River, in Massachusetts. 
They were Quakers, and some of them suffered from the “ sharp laws ” 
which the fierce Independents enacted against those “ devil-driven here¬ 
tics,” as they are styled in tlie “ Magnalia ” of Cotton Mather. 

The poet was born in the year 1808, on a spot inhabited by his family 
during four or five generations ; and until he was eighteen years of age, 
his time was chiefly passed in the district schools, and in aiding his father 
on the farm. His nineteenth year was spent in a Latin school, and in 
1828 he went to Boston to conduct “ The American Manufacturer,” a 
gazette established to advocate a protective tariff. He had previously 
won some reputation as a writer by various contributions, in prose and 
verse, to the newspapers printed in his native town and in Newburyport, 
and the ability with which he managed the “ Manufacturer,” now made 
his name familiar throughout the country. 

In 1830 he went to Hartford, in Connecticut, to take charge of the 




94 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


“New England Weekly Review.” He remained here about two years^ 
during which he was an ardent politician, of what was then called the 
National Republican party, and devoted but little attentiou to literature. 
He published, however, in this period his “ Legends of New England,” a 
collection of poems and prose sketches, founded on events in the early 
history of the country; wrote the memoir of his friend Brainard, prefixed 
to the collection of that author’s works printed in 1830; and several 
poems which appeared in the “ Weekly Review.” 

In 1831 Mr. Whittier returned to Haverhill, where he was five or six 
years engaged in agricultural pursuits. He represented that town in the 
legislature, in its sessions for 1835 an d 1836, and declined a re-election 
in 1837. His poem, “ Mogg Megone,” was first published in 1836. He 
regarded the story of the hero only as a framework for sketches of the 
scenery and of the primitive settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent 
states. In portraying the Indian character, he followed as closely as was 
practicable, rough but natural delineations, discarding much of the 
romance which more modern writers have thrown around the red-man’s 
life. In this, as in the fine ballad of “ Cassandra Southwick,” and in 
some of his prose writings, he exhibited in a very striking manner the 
intolerant spirit of the Puritans. It can excite no surprise that a New 
England Quaker refuses to join in the applause which it is the custom to 
bestow upon the persecutors of his ancestors. But our poet, by a very 
natural exaggeration, may have done them even less than justice. 

Impelled by that hatred of every species of oppression which per¬ 
haps is the most marked of his characteristics, Mr. Whittier entered at 
an early period upon the discussion of the abolition question, and after 
the year 1836, when he was elected one of the secretaries of the American 
Anti-Slavery Society, he was among the most prominent and influential 
advocates of immediate emancipation. His poems on this subject are full 
of indignant and nervous remonstrance, invective and denunciation. Mr. 
Whittier rates the tyranny of public opinion at its true value. Whatever 
may be its power he despises it. He gives to his mind and heart their 
true voice. His simple, direct and earnest appeals produced deep and 
lasting impressions. Their reception happily showed that plain and 
unprejudiced speech is not less likely to be heard than the vapid self- 
praise and wearisome iteration of inoffensive commonplaces employed by 
the great mass of those who address the public. 

Although boldness and energy are Whittier’s leading characteristics, 


JOHN GREENLEAE WHITTIER. 


95 


his works are not without passages scarcely less distinguished for tender¬ 
ness and grace. In his later poems his style is more subdued and correct, 
though it is divested of none of his peculiar freshness. 

Besides his “ Mogg Megone,” “ Ballads,” “ Lays of Home,” “ Bridal 
of Pennacook,” and other poems, he wrote the “ Legends of New Eng¬ 
land,” before mentioned,. “ The Stranger in Lowell,” and much more in 
prose, all in the same honest and fearless spirit which marks his verse. 

Whittier was a humanitarian ; he was a firm believer in the father¬ 
hood of God, beautifully expressed in the lines: 

I know not where His islands lift 
Their fronded palms in air ; 

But this I know, I cannot drift 
Beyond His love and care. 

Through all his life, whether with the bright, flashing blade of his 
noble, poetic rhetoric, or the sounding quarter-staff of his earnest and 
manly prose, he fought the long, hot, dangerous battle of emancipation 
through contempt and defeat to lasting and complete victory. Whittier 
never was married but devoted his life to his one great pursuit. In 1840 
he settled in the quiet village of Amesbury, Mass., near his birthplace, 
where he died September 7, 1892. 

A final edition of Whittier’s poems revised by himself, appeared in 
seven volumes (1888-89). A new volume, “ At Sundown,” was announced 
after his death. Whittier may reasonably be styled a national poet. His 
works breathe affection for and faith in our republican polity and un¬ 
shackled religion, but an affection and a faith that do not blind him to 
our weakness or wickedness. He dares to “ tell the world it lies.” He 
is of that class of authors whom we most need in America to build up a 
literature that shall elevate with itself the national feeling and character. 


IN SCHOOL DAYS. 


S TILL sits the school-house by the road, 
A ragged beggar sunning; 

Around it still the sumachs grow. 

And blackberry vines are running. 

Within, the master’s desk is seen, 

Deep scarred by raps official; 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 
The jack-knife’s carved initial; 


The charcoal frescoes on its wall; 

Its door’s worn sill, betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
Went storming out to playing. 

Long years ago a winter sun 
Shone over it at setting; 

Lit up its western window-panes, 

And low eaves’ icy fretting. 






JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


It touched the tangled golden curls, 

And brown eyes, full of grieving, 

Of one who still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving. 

For near her stood the little boy, 

Her childish favor singled, 

His cap pulled low upon a face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered ; 

As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt 
The soft hands’ light caressing, 


And heard the trembling of her voice, 
As if a fault confessing: 

“I’m sorry that I spelt the word ; 

I hate to go above you, 

Because”— the brown eyes lower fell— 
“ Because, you see, I love you! ” 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child face is showing. 

Dear girl! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years l een growing. 

He lives to learn in life’s hard school, 
How few who pass above him 

Lament their triumph and his loss, 
Like her—because they love him. 


THE PUMPKIN. 


FRUIT loved by boyhood! the old 
days recalling; 

When wood-grapes were purpling and 
brown nuts were falling! 

When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin, 

Glaring out through the dark with a candle 
within! 

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with 
hearts all in tune, 

Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the 
moon, 

Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like 
steam 

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for 
her team! 

Then thanks for thy present!—none sweeter 
or better 



E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! 

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more 
fine, 

Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, 
than thine ; 

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full 
to express, 

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never 
be less, 

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened 
below, 

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin- 
vine grow, 

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset 
sky 

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin- 
pie ! 


MAUD 

M AUD Muller, on a summer’s day. 

Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 


MULLER. 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast— 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 

For something better than she had known 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 







JOHN GREENLEAE WHITTIER. 


97 


And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road.^. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin-cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare and her tattered gown. 

“Thanks! ’’ said the Judge, “ a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.” 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 

Then talked of the haying and wondered 
whether 

The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, 

And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : “ Ah, me! 
That I the Judge’s bride might be! S 

“ He would dress me up in silks so fine, 

And praise and toast me at his wine. 

“ My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

“ And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door.” 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

“ A form more fair, a face more sweet, 

Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet. 

“ And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

“Would she were mine, and I to-day, 

Like her, a harvester of hay: 

“ No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 


“ But low of cattle, and song of birds, 

And health, and quiet, and loving words.” 

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 

And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 

When he hummed in court an old love-tune; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 

Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go : 

And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass was red, 

He longed for the wayside well instead : 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, 
“ Ah, that I were free again! 

“ Free as when I rode that day, * 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.” 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor. 

And many children played round her door. . 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot - 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 

She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 



98 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 

The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 

And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, “It might have been.” 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge! 


God pity them both, and pity us all, 

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; 

For all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these: “It might have 
been !” 

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away! 


NEW ENGLAND IN WINTER. 


HUT in from all the world without 
l We sat the clean-winged hearth about 
Content to let the north-wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door, 

While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat; 

And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 

The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed, 


The house-dog on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 

The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall; 

And, for the winter fireside meet, 
Between the andirons’ straddling feet, 
The mug of cider simmered slow, 

The apples sputtered in a row, 

And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October’s wood. 


VIRTUE ALONE BEAUTIFUL. 


C ( T T ANDSOME is that handsume does— 
hold up your hands, girls,” is the 
language of Primrose in the play, 
when addressing her daughters. The worthy 
matron was right. Would that all my female 
readers, who are sorrowing foolishly because 
they are not in all respects like Dubufe’s Eve, 
or that statue of Venus which enchants the 
world, could be persuaded to listen to her. 
What is good-looking, as Horace Smith re¬ 
marks, but looking good? Be good, be 
womanly, be gentle—generous in your sympa¬ 
thies, heedful of the well-being of those around 
you, and, my word for it, you will not lack 
kind words or admiration. 

Loving and pleasant associations will gather 
about you. Never mind the ugly reflection 
which your glass may give you. That mirror 
has no heart. But quite another picture is 


given you on the retina of human sympathy. 
There the beauty of holiness, of purity, of that 
inward grace “ which passeth show,” rests over 
it, softening and mellowing its features, just 
as the full, calm moonlight melts those of a 
rough landscape into harmonious loveliness. 

“ Hold up your heads, girlsI repeat after 
Primrose. Why should you not? Every 
mother’s daughter of you can be beautiful. 
You can envelop yourselves in an atmosphere 
of moral and intellectual beauty, through 
which your otherwise plain faces will look 
forth like those of angels. Beautiful to Led- 
yard, stiffening in the cold of a northern win¬ 
ter, seemed the diminutive, smoke-stained wo¬ 
men of Lapland, who wrapped him in their 
furs, and ministered to his necessities with kind 
and gentle words of compassion. 

Lovely to the home-sick Park seemed the 








JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


99 


dark maids of Sigo, as they sung their low and 
simple songs of welcome beside his bed, and 
sought to comfort the white stranger who had 
“ no mother to bring him milk, and no wife to 
grind him corn.” Oh! talk as you may of 
beauty, as a thing to be chiselled upon marble 
or wrought on canvas—speculate as you may 
upon its colors and outline—what is it but an 
intellectual abstraction after all ? The heart 
feels a beauty of another kind—looking through 
outward environments, it discovers a deeper 
and more real loveliness. 

This was well understood by the old paint¬ 
ers. In their pictures of Mary, the virgin 


mother, the beauty which melts and subdues 
the gazer is that of the soul and the affections 
—uniting the awe and the mystery of the 
mother’s miraculous allotment with the inex¬ 
pressible love, the unutterable tenderness, of 
young maternity—Heaven’s crowning miracle 
with nature’s sweetest and holiest instinct. 
And their pale Magdalens, holy with the look 
of sins forgiven—how the divine beauty of 
their penitence sinks into the heart! Do we 
not feel that the only real deformity is sin, and 
that goodness evermore hallows and sanctifies 
its dwelling-place ? 


THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY. 


'HE proudest now is but my peer, 

The highest not more high ; 

To-day, of all the weary year, 

A king of men am I. 

To-day, alike are great and small, 

The nameless and the known ; 

My palace is the people’s hall, 

The ballot-box my throne! 

Who serves to-day upon the list 
Beside the served shall stand; 

Alike the brown and wrinkled fist, 

The gloved and dainty hand! 

The rich is level with the poor, 

The weak is strong to-day; 

And sleekest broadcloth counts no more 
Than homespun frock of gray. 


To-day let pomp and vain pretence 
My stubborn right abide; 

I set a plain man’s common sense 
Against the pedant’s pride. 

To-day shall simple manhood try 
The strength of gold and land ; 

The wide world has not wealth to buy 
The power in my right hand ! 

While there’s a grief to seek redress, 
Or balance to adjust 
Where weighs our living manhood less 
Than Mammon’s vilest dust— 
While there’s a right to need my vote, 
A wrong to sweep away, 

Up! clouted knee and ragged coat! 

A man’s a man to-day! 


THE SHIP BUILDERS. 


T HE sky is ruddy in the east, 

The earth is gray below, 

And spectral in the river-mist, 

The ship’s white timbers show. 

Then let the sounds of measured stroke 
And grating saw begin ; 

The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, 

The mallet to the pin! 

Hark!—roars the bellows, blast on blast, 
The sooty smithy jars, 

And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, 

Are fading with the stars. 


All day for us the smith shall stand 
Beside that flashing forge; 

All day for us his heavy hand 
The groaning anvil scourge. 

Up!—up!—in nobler toil than ours 
No craftsmen bear a part; 

We make of nature’s giant powers 
The slaves of human art. 

Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, 
And drive the treenails free; 

Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam 
Shall tempt the searching sea! 


L.ofC. 







100 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


Ho!—strike away the bars and blocks, 
And set the good ship free! 

Why linger on these dusty rocks 
The young bride of the sea ? 

Look ! how she moves adown the grooves, 
In graceful beauty now! 

How lowly on the breast she loves 
Sinks down her virgin prow! 

God bless her! wheresoe’er the breeze 
Her snowy wings shall fan, 

Aside the frozen Hebrides, 

Or sultry Hindostan! 


Where’er, in mart or on the main, 
With peaceful flag unfurled, 

She helps to wind the silken chain 
Of commerce round the world! 

Be hers the prairie’s golden grain, 
The desert’s golden sand, 

The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, 
The spice of morning-land! 

Her pathway on the open main 
May blessings follow free, 

And glad hearts welcome back again 
Her white sails from the sea! 


THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. 


C ALM on the breast of Loch Maree 
A little isle reposes; 

A shadow woven of the oak 
And willow o’er it closes. 

Within, a Druid’s mound is seen, 

Set round with stony warders; 

A fountain, gushing through the turf, 
Flows o’er its grassy borders. 

And whoso bathes therein his brow, 
With care or madness burning, 
Feels once again his healthful thought 
And sense of peace returning. 


O! restless heart and fevered brain, 
Unquiet and unstable, 

That holy well of Loch Maree 
Is more than idle fable! 

Life’s changes vex, its discords stun, 
Its glaring sunshine blindeth, 

And blest is he who on his way 
That fount of healing findeth! 

The shadows of a humbled will 
And contrite heart are o’er it: 

Go read its legend—“ Trust in God 
O n Faith’s white stones before it. 


THE BAREFOOT BOY. 


B LESSINGS on thee, little man, 

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan i 
With thy turned up pantaloons, 

And thy merry whistled tunes; 

With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace! 
From my heart I give thee joy ; 

I was once a barefoot boy. 

Prince thou art—the grown-up man. 
Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

Thou hast more than he can buy. 

In the reach of ear and eye: 


Outward sunshine, inward joy, 
Blessings on the barefoot boy. 

O! for boyhood’s painless play, 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools: 
Of the wild bee’s morning chase, 

Of the wild flower’s time and place, 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 

How the oriole’s nest is hung; 










































^Tr'.fsw" 



































JOHN GREENIyEAF WHITTIER. 


101 


Where the whitest lilies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow, 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine, 
Of the black wasp’s cunning way, 

Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks; 

Hand in hand with her he walks, 

Part and parcel of her joy, 

Blessings on the barefoot boy. 

O for boyhood’s time of June, 

Crowding years in one brief moon, 

When all things I heard or saw, 

Me, their master, waited for! 

I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey bees; 

For my sport the squirrel played, 

Plied the snouted mole his spade; 

For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone; 

Laughed the brook for my delight, 
Through the day, and through the night 
Whispering at the garden wall, 

Talked with me from fall to fall ; 

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 


Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 

Mine, on bending orchard trees. 
Apples of Hesperides! 

Still, as my horizon grew. 

Larger grew my" riches too, 

All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 

Cheerily, then, my little man! 

Live and laugh as boyhood can ; 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 

Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; 

All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 

Lose the freedom of the sod, 

Like a colt’s for work be shod. 

Made to tread the mills of toil. 

Up and down in ceaseless moil, 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 

Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 




James Fenimore Cooper. 

Master of Indian Romance. 


HIS popular American novelist, born at Burlington, New Jersey, 
in September, 1789, was a son of Judge William Cooper. His 
mother’s maiden name was Fenimore. About 1790 his father 
settled at Cooperstown, which he founded on the shore of Lake 
Otsego, New York, where he owned a large tract of land, then 
covered with forests and lying on the frontier of civilization. 

He entered Yale College in 1802, remained there about three years, 
and became a midshipman in the navy in 1806. Having retired from the 
navy in 1811, he married Susan DeLancey, of New York, a sister of 
Bishop DeLancey. His first literary production was “ Precaution,” a 
novel, (1819,) which was inferior to his later works. He published next 
“ The Spy, a Tale of the Neutral Ground,” founded on incidents connected 
with the Revolutionary war, which was very successful and was published 
in many parts of Europe. It was translated into several languages. 
“ He has the high praise,” says the “ North American Review ” “ and will 
have, we may add, the future glory, of having struck into a new path—of 
having opened a mine of exhaustless wealth. In a word, he has laid the 
foundations of American romance.” 

In 1823 he produced “The Pioneers” and “The Pilot,” which were 
also very popular. His next novels were “ Lionel Lincoln ” and “ The 
Last of the Mohicans,” (1826) in which Indian life and character were well 
represented. During a visit to Europe he published “ The Prairie,” 
(1827) “The Red Rover,” (1827) “The Wept of Wish-ton-Wish,” (1829) 
“ The Bravo,” (1831) and other works. Alluding to his admirable delinea¬ 
tions of life at sea in the “ Pilot ” and the “ Red Rover,” the “ Edinburgh 
Review ” says, “ The empire of the sea has been conceded to him by 
acclamation.” He satirized the foibles of his own countrymen in “ The 
Monikins,” (1835), “ Homeward Bound,” (1838) and “ Home as Found,” 
(1838) which were not so popular as his former works. In 1839 he 
102 




JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


103 


published a “ History of the Navy of the United States,” which is a work 
of much labor and some merit. 

Among his later works are “ The Pathfinder,” (1840) “ The Deer- 
slayer,” (1841) “Wing and Wing,” (1842) “Wyandotte,” (1843) “Afloat 
and Ashore,” (1844) “ The Chain-Bearer,” (1845) “ Oak Openings,” (1848) 
and “The Ways of the Hour,” (1850). He died at Cooperstown in 
September, 1851. “ His writings,” says William H. Prescott, “ are instinct 

with the spirit of nationality. In his productions every American must 
take an honest pride. For surely no one has succeeded like Cooper in 
the portraiture of American character, or has given such glowing and 
eminently truthful pictures of American scenery.” 

“The same sort of magical authority over the spirit of romance,” 
says the “ North American Review,” “ which belongs in common to Scott, 
Radcliffe, Walpole, and our countryman Brown, is, for us at least, 
possessed by this writer in an eminent degree.” “ We consider Mr. 
Cooper,” says the same authority, “ as possessing in a very high degree 
the first qualification to which we have adverted — that of power in 
description. It is, however, most strikingly displayed in one department, 
in which nobody has preceded him or has yet attempted to become his 
rival. Whatever opinion may be entertained of his success in other 
respects, all will agree that his boldest and most triumphant march is on 
the mountain wave. He treads the deck with the same conscious pride 
with which the Highland outlaw stood upon his native heath.” 

“ He wrote of mankind at large,” says W. C. Bryant: “ hence it is 
that he has earned a fame wider than any American author. The crea¬ 
tions of his genius shall survive through centuries to come, and only 
perish with our language.” 

Cooper’s works, although written for a past generation and born of 
the time in which their characters flourished, are still instinct with life 
and a charm that is irresistible. They appeal to the imagination, to the 
love of genuine romance and are destined to a perpetual popularity. 

Mr. Cooper was a prolific writer, as may be seen from the list of his 
published works. That he should have written so much and with scarcely 
a page that does not show real literary merit, is a remarkable tribute to 
his genius. He has been called the “ Walter Scott of America,” and 
indeed there is a marked resemblance between these two great Authors. 


104 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


RAISING THE WIND. 

FROM “ THE CHAINBEARER.” 


“ T AAP ”—I asked of my companion, as we 
drew near to the hamlet where I in¬ 
tended to pass the night, and the comforts 
of a warm supper on a sharp frosty evening 
began to haunt my imagination—“ Jaap, how 
much money may you have about you ? ” 

“ I, Masser Mordaunt!—Golly! but dat a 
berry droll question, sah! ” 

“ I ask, because my own stock is reduced to 
just one York shilling, which goes by the 
name of only a ninepence in this part of the 
world.” 

“ Dat berry little, to tell ’e trut’, sah, for 
two gentleum, and two large, hungry hosses. 
Berry little, indeed, sah! I wish he war’ 
more.” 

«Yet, I have not a copper more. I gave 
one thousand two hundred dollars for the 
dinner and baiting and oats, at noon.” 

“ Yes, sah—but, dat conternental, sah, I 
supposes—no great t’ing, a’ter all.” 

“ It’s a great thing in sound, Jaap, but not 
much when it comes to the teeth, as you per¬ 
ceive. Nevertheless, we must eat and drink, 
and our nags must eat too — I suppose they 
may drink, without paying.” 

“Yes, sah—dat true ’nough, yah—yah— 
yah”—how easily that negro laughed !—“ But 
’e cider wonderful good in dis part of ’e 
country, young masser ; just needer sweet nor 
sour — den he strong as ’e jackass.” 

“ Well, Jaap, how are we to get any of this 
good cider, of which you speak ? ” 

“You t’ink, sah, dis part of ’e country been 
talk to much lately ’bout Patty Rism and ’e 
country, sah?” 

“ I am afraid Patty has been overdone here, 
as well as in most other countries.” 

I may observe here, that Jaap always 
imagined the beautiful creature he had heard 
so much extolled, and commended for her 
comeliness and virtue, was a certain young 
woman of this name, with whom all Congress 
was unaccountably in love at the same time. 

“ Well, den, sah, dere no hope, but our wits. 
Let me be masser to-night, and you mind ole 
Jaap, if he want good supper. Jest ride 


ahead, Masser Mordaunt, and give he order 
like General Littlepage son, and leave it all 
to ole Jaap.” 

As there was not much to choose, I did ride 
on, and soon ceased to hear the hoofs of the 
negro’s horse at my heels. I reached the inn 
an hour ere Jaap appeared, and was actually 
seated at a capital supper before he rode up, 
as one belonging only to himself. Jaap had 
taken off the Littlepage emblems, and had 
altogether a most independent air. His horse 
was stabled alongside of mine, and I soon 
found that he himself was at work on the 
remnants of my supper, as they retreated 
toward the kitchen. 

A traveller of my appearance was accom¬ 
modated with the best parlour, as a matter of 
course; and, having appeased my appetite, I 
sat down to read some documents that were 
connected with the duty I was ou. No one 
could have imagined that I had only a York 
shilling, which is a Pennsylvania “ levy,” or 
a Connecticut “ninepence,” in my purse; for 
my air was that of one who could pay for all 
lie wanted; the certainty that, in the long run, 
my host could not be a loser, giving me a 
proper degree of confidence. I had just got 
through with the documents, and was think¬ 
ing how I should employ the hour or two 
that remained until it would be time to go to 
bed, when I heard Jaap tuning his fiddle in 
the bar-room. Like most negroes, the fellow 
had an ear for music, and had been indulged 
in his taste, until he played as well as half the 
country fiddlers that were to be met. 

The sound of a fiddle in a small hamlet, of 
a cool October evening, was certain of its 
result. In half an hour, the smiling landlady 
came to invite me to join the company, with 
the grateful information I should not want for 
a partner, the prettiest girl in the place hav¬ 
ing come in late, and being still unprovided 
for. On entering the bar-room, I was received 
with plenty of awkward bows and curtsies, 
but with much simple and well-meaning 
hospitality. Jaap’s own salutations were very 
elaborate, and altogether of a character to 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


105 


prevent the suspicion of our ever having met 
before. 

The dancing continued for more than two 
hours with spirit, when the time admonished 
the village maidens of the necessity of retir¬ 
ing. Seeing an indication of the approaching 
separation, Jaap held out his hat to me, in 
a respectful manner, when I magnificently 
dropped my shilling into it in a way to attract 
attention, and passed it round among the males 
of the party. One other gave a shilling, two 
clubbed and actually produced a quarter, 
several threw in sixpences, or fourpence-half- 


pennies, and coppers made up the balance. 
By way of climax, the landlady, who was 
good-looking and loved dancing, publicly 
announced that the fiddler and his horse 
should go scot free, until he left the place. By 
these ingenious means of Jaap’s I found in my 
purse next morning seven-and-sixpence in sil¬ 
ver, in addition to my own shilling, besides 
copper enough to keep a negro in cider for a 
week. 

I have often laughed over Jaap’s manage¬ 
ment, though I would not permit him to 
repeat it. 


VENICE AT NIGHT. 


T HE moon was at the height. Its rays fell 
in a flood on the swelling domes and 
massive roofs of Venice, while the margin 
of the town was brilliantly defined by the 
glittering bay. The natural and gorgeous 
setting was more than worthy of that picture 
of human magnificence; for at that moment, 
rich as was the queen of the Adriatic in her 
works of art, the grandeur of her public 
monuments, the number and splendor of her 
palaces, and most else that the ingenuity and 
ambition of man could attempt, she was but 
secondary in the glories of the hour. 

Above was the firmament gemmed with 
worlds, and sublime in immensity. Beneath 
lay the broad expanse of the Adriatic, endless 


to the eye, tranquil as the vault it reflected, 
and luminous with its borrowed light. Here 
and there a low island, reclaimed from the sea 
by the patient toil of a thousand years, dotted 
the Lagunes, burdened by the group of some 
conventual dwellings, or picturesque with the 
modest roofs of a hamlet of the fishermen. 
Neither oar, nor song, nor laugh, nor flap of 
sail, nor jest of mariner disturbed the stillness. 
All in the near view was clothed in midnight 
loveliness, and all in the distance bespoke the 
solemnity of nature at peace. The city and 
the Lagunes, the gulf and the dreamy Alps, 
the interminable plain of Lombardy, and the 
blue void of heaven lay alike in a common 
and grand repose. 


THE PRAIRIE FIRE. 

FROM “ THE BRAVO.” 


A VERY few moments sufficed to lay bare 
a spot of some twenty feet in diameter. 
Into one edge of this little area the trap¬ 
per brought the females, directing Middleton 
and Paul to cover their light and inflammable 
dresses with the blankets of the party. So 
soon as this precaution was observed, the old 
man approached the opposite margin of the 
grass, which still environed them in a tall and 
dangerous circle, and selecting a handful of 
the driest of the herbage, he placed it over the 


pan of his rifle. The light combustible kindled 
at the flash. Then he placed the little flame 
into a bed of the standing fog, and withdraw¬ 
ing from the spot to the centre of the ring, he 
patiently awaited the result. 

The subtle element seized with avidity upon 
its new fuel, and in a moment forked flames 
were gliding among the grass, as the tongues 
of ruminating animals are seen rolling among 
their food apparently in quest of its sweetest 
portions. 







JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


106 

“ Now,” said the old man, holding up a 
finger and laughing in his peculiarly silent 
manner, “ you shall see fire fight fire! Ah’s 
me! many is the time I have burnt a smootly 
path from wanton laziness to pick my way 
across a tangled bottom.” 

“ But is this not fatal ? ” cried the amazed 
Middleton; “ are you not bringing the enemy 
nigher to us instead of avoiding it? ” 

“ Do you scorch so easily ?—your gran’ther 
had a tougher skin. But we shall live to see; 
we shall all live to see.” 

The experience of the trapper was in the 
right. As the fire gained strength and heat 
it began to spread on three sides, dying of 
itself on the fourth for want of aliment. As 
it increased, and the sullen roaring announced 
its power, it cleared every thing before it, 
leaving the black and smoking soil far more 
naked than if the scythe had swept the 
place. The situation of the fugitives would 
have still been hazardous had not the area 
enlarged as the flame encircled them. But by 
advancing to the spot where the trapper had 
kindled the grass, they avoided the heat, and 
in a very few moments the flames began to 
recede in every quarter, leaving them enveloped 
in a cloud of smoke, but perfectly safe from 
the torrent of fire that was still furiously 
rolling onward. 

The spectators regarded the simple expe¬ 
dient of the trapper with that species of 


wonder with which the courtiers of Ferdinand 
are said to have viewed the manner in which 
Columbus made his egg to stand on its end, 
though with feelings that were filled with 
gratitude instead of envy. 

“ Most wonderful!” said Middleton, when 
he saw the complete success of the means by 
which they had been rescued from a danger 
that he had conceived to be unavoidable. 
“The thought was a gift from heaven, and 
the hand that executed it should be immortal.” 

“ Old trapper,” cried Paul, thrusting his 
fingers through his shaggy locks, “ I have 
lined many a loaded bee into his hole, and 
know something of the nature of the woods, 
but this is robbing a hornet of his sting with¬ 
out touching the insect!” 

“ It will do—it will do,” returned the old 
man, who after the first moment of his success 
seemed to think no more of the exploit... “Let 
the flames do their work for a short half 
hour and then we will mount. That time is 
needed to cool the meadow, for these unshod 
beasts are tender on the hoof as a barefooted 
girl.” 

The veteran, on whose experience they all 
so implicitly relied for protection, employed 
himself in reconnoitring objects in the distance, 
through the openings which the air occasionally 
made in the immense bodies of smoke, that by 
this time lay in enormous piles on every part 
of the plain. 





Walt Whitman. 

“The Good Grey Poet.” 


HE name of “ The Good Grey Poet ” was given to Mr. Whitman 
probably on account of his venerable appearance during his 
last years. With a heavy head of white hair, long grey 
whiskers, clear complexion and benevolent expression, he was 
a striking figure when he appeared, as he often did, on the 
streets of Philadelphia. Many knew him and always gave 
him a kindly look. He was a man of large, warm heart, a thinker 
of bold and earnest type and one who cared very little for the world’s 
red tape. 

He was born of mingled English and Dutch stock on May 31st, 1819, 
at West Hills, Long Island, in New York State, and died on March 27th, 
1892, at Camden, New Jersey, where he resided. In early life he exhi¬ 
bited some of those erratic tendencies which are quite frequently the ac¬ 
companiments of genius. That he was a genius of a certain order is 
commonly admitted, and his admirers have been quite as numerous 
abroad as they have been in his own country. He followed the trade of a 
printer for a while and in 1846 was editor of a Brooklyn journal. 

All along haunted by the yearning and sense of obligation to pro¬ 
duce a life-work, Whitman seemed quite unable to find full and free ex¬ 
pressions for his emotions and thoughts until he hit upon the curious, 
irregular, recitative measures in which he composed the “ Leaves of 
Grass.” When first issued in 1855 this was a small volume, but it grew 
in the course of seven succeeding editions till it contained nearly 400 
pages. The later and complete editions, taken together with his prose 
book, “ Specimen Days and Collect,” may be held to embrace the life- 
work of Whitman as a writer. That he lived up to the high sentiments 
expressed in his writings no one can doubt. 

During the Civil War he went to the front and became a nurse to 
the wounded, the suffering and dying. Not Florence Nightingale, with 
all her tenderness, could surpass his gentle ministries on the field of bat- 

107 




108 


WALT WHITMAN. 


tie, and many an old soldier to this day loves and honors his memory. 
In 1874 Whitman took up his residence at Camden, where he resided 
until his death. Partially paralyzed as he now was, he was in no small 
danger of falling into absolute poverty, had it not been for the timely 
help of his admirers beyond the Atlantic, a movement in which Tenny¬ 
son, Carlyle, Ruskin and other leading authors took generous and active 
part. Later on several wealthy American citizens honored themselves 
and their country by liberally providing for the aged poet’s simple wants. 
He was never married. 

Like Wordsworth he would sing “ man as man,” only with a far 
wider and bolder sweep of subject and greater daring of treatment. His 
rhythm at times is not rhythm at all, and his poems sometimes show a 
strange mixture of the lofty and the commonplace, apparently adhering 
to no rules of poetry whatever. This may count with many as a mark 
of genius. Doubtless it is upon certain passages and brief excerpts that 
Whitman’s fame will rest. It may come true that as time goes on he 
will receive the abundant honor which failed to fall to his lot during his 
life. 


O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

Mr. Whitman gave the world the following grand and touching tribute to President 
Lincoln on the occasion of his martyrdom. Iu originality, beauty, and force of expression 
it shows a high order of genius. 


O CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful 
trip is done, 

The ship has weathered every rack, the 
prize we sought is won, 

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people 
all exulting, 

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel 
grim and daring; 

But O heart! heart! heart! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear 
the bells; 

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you 
the bugle thrills, 

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for 
you the shores a-crowding, 


For you they call, the swaying mass, their 
eager faces turning; 

Here, Captain! dear father ! 

This arm beneath your head! 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You’ve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale 
and still, 

My father does not feel my arm, he has no 
pulse nor will, 

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voy¬ 
age closed and done, 

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in 
with object won ; 

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 

But I with mournful tread 

Walk the deck; my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 






















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WALT WHITMAN. 


109 


A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAY-BREAK. 


A SIGHT in camp in the day-break gray 
and dim, 

As from my tent I emerge so early, 
sleepless. 

As slow I walk in the cool, fresh air, the path 
near by the hospital tent, 

Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought 
out there, untended lying, 

Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish 
woolen blanket, 

Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering 
all. 

Carious I halt, and silent stand ; 

Then with light fingers I from the face of the 
nearest, the first, just lift the blanket: 


Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, 
with well-grayed hair, and flesh all sunken 
about the eyes ? 

Who are you, my dear comrade? 

Then to the second I step. And who are you, 
my child and darling ? 

Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet 
blooming ? 

Then to the third—a face nor child, nor old, 
very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white 
ivory ; 

Young man, I think I know you—I think 
this face of yours is the face of the Christ 
himself; 

Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here 
again he lies. 


DEATH 

C OME, lovely and soothing Death, 

Undulate round the world, serenely 
arriving, arriving 

In the day, in the night, to all, to each, 

Sooner or later, delicate Death. 

Praised be the fathomless universe, 

For life and joy, and for objects and know¬ 
ledge curious; 

And for love, sweet love; but praise! praise! 
praise! 

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding 
Death. 

Dark mother, always gliding near, with 
soft feet, 

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest 
welcome ? 

Then I chant it for thee; I glorify thee above 
all; 

I bring thee a song that when thou must 
indeed come, come unfalteringly. 

Approach, strong deliveress! 

When it is so—when thou hast taken them, 
I joyously sing the dead, 


CAROL. 

Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, 
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. 

From me to thee glad serenades. 

Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee; adorn¬ 
ments and feastings for thee; 

And the sights of the open landscape, and the 
high-spread sky, are fitting, 

And life and the fields, and the huge and 
thoughtful night. 

The night, in silence, under many a star; 
The ocean-shore, and the husky whispering 
wave whose voice I know; 

And the soul turning to thee, O vast and 
well-veiled Death, 

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. 

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song! 

Over the rising and sinking waves, over the 
myriad fields, and the prairies wide ; 
Over the dense-packed cities all, and the 
teeming wharves and ways, 

I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O, 
Death! 





Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

Most Distinguished of Romancers. 


the famous circle of authors who have elevated American liter¬ 
ature to a high rank, including Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, 
Holmes and others, Hawthorne holds a conspicuous place, and 
indeed the place of highest honor among writers of American 
fiction. His works enjoy a perennial popularity. In the opin¬ 
ion of Longfellow he was without a peer, as may be seen from 
the tribute paid him after his death : 

There in seclusion and remote from men 
The wizard hand lies cold, 

Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen. 

And left the tale half told. 

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power 
And the lost clew regain ? 

The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower 
Unfinished must remain! 

Nathaniel Hawthorne was born in Salem, Massachusetts, and came 
of a family which for several generations had “ followed the sea.” Among 
his ancestors was the “ bold Hawthorne ” who was celebrated in a revolu¬ 
tionary ballad as commander of the “ Fair American.’’ He was educated 
at Bowdoin College in Maine, where he graduated in 1825. One of his 
classmates there was Mr. Longfellow. 

In 1837 Mr. Hawthorne published the first and in 1842 the second 
volume of his “ Twice Told Tales,” so named because they had previously 
appeared in the periodicals. In 1845 edited “ The Journal of an Afri¬ 
can Cruiser,” and in 1846 published “Mosses from an Old Manse,” a sec¬ 
ond collection of his magazine papers. 

In the introduction to the last work he gave some delightful glimpses 
of his personal history. He had been several years in the Custom house: 
at Boston, while Mr. Bancroft was collector, and afterward had joined that 
remarkable association, the “ Brook Farm Community,’’ at West Rox- 

110 




NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


Ill 


bury, where, with others, he appears to have been reconciled to the old 
ways, as quite equal to the inventions of Fourier, Owen, and the rest of 
that ingenious company of schemers, who were so intent upon a recon¬ 
struction of the foundations of society. In 1843 he went to reside in the 
pleasant village of Concord, in the “ Old Manse,’’ which had never been 
profaned by a lay occupant until he entered it as his home. 

In his home at Concord, in the midst of a few congenial friends, 
Hawthorne passed three years; and, “ in a spot so sheltered from the tur¬ 
moil of life’s ocean,” he says, “ three years hasten away with a noiseless 
flight, as the breezy sunshine chases the cloud-shadows across the depths 
of a still valley.” But at length his repose was invaded, by that “ spirit 
of improvement,” which is so constantly marring the happiness of quiet- 
loving people, and he was compelled to look out for another residence. 

Mr. Hawthorne added greatly to his fame by the publication of his 
celebrated romance, “ The Scarlet Letter,” in 1850, and “ The House of 
Seven Gables’’ in 1851. These may be called his masterpieces, and 
“ The Marble Faun,” which appeared in i860, is well worthy to be classed 
with them, and fully sustained his brilliant reputation. He died in 1864. 

The characteristics of Hawthorne which first arrest the attention are 
imagination and reflection, and these are exhibited in remarkable power 
and activity in tales and essays, of which the style is distinguished for 
great simplicity, purity and tranquility. He is original in invention, 
construction, and expression, always picturesque, and sometimes in a high 
degree dramatic. His favorite scenes and traditions are those of his own 
country, many of which he has made classical by the beautiful associa¬ 
tions that he has thrown around them. Every thing to him is suggest¬ 
ive, as his own pregnant pages are to the congenial reader. 

All his productions are life-mysteries, significant of profound truths. 
His speculations, often bold and striking, are presented with singular 
force, but with such a quiet grace and simplicity as not to startle until 
they enter in and occupy the mind. The gayety with which his pensive¬ 
ness is occasionally broken, seems more than any thing else in his works 
to have cost some effort. The gentle sadness, the “ half-acknowledged 
melancholy,” of his manner and reflections, are more natural and charac¬ 
teristic. 

His style is studded with the most poetical imagery, and marked in 
every part with the happiest graces of expression, while it is calm, chaste, 
and flowing, and transparent as water. All must concede to him not only 


112 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


great originality, but a rare power of subtle analysis, a delicate and exqui¬ 
site Humor, and a marvelous felicity in the use of language. His style, 
indeed, may be said to combine almost every excellence—elegance, sim¬ 
plicity, grace, clearness and force. 


COMPANIONSHIP 

WEET has been the charm of childhood 
on my spirit, throughout my ramble with 
little Annie! Say not that it has been 
a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, 
a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of 
childish imaginations about topics unworthy 
of a grown man’s notice. Has it been merely 
this? Not so; not so. They are not truly 
wise who would affirm it. As the pure breath 
of children revives the life of aged men, so is 
our moral nature revived by their free and 
simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy 
mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon 
roused and soon allayed. Their influence on 
us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. 


WITH CHILDREN. 

When our infancy is almost forgotten, and 
our boyhood long departed, though it seems 
but as yesterday ; when life settles darkly down 
upon us, and we doubt whether to call our¬ 
selves young any more, then it is good to steal 
away from the society of bearded men, and 
even of gentler women, and spend an hour or 
two with children. After drinking from those 
fountains of still fresh existence, we shall 
return into the crowd, as I do now, to struggle 
onward and do our part in life, perhaps as fer¬ 
vently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder 
and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly 
wise. All this by thy sweet magic, dear little 
Annie! 


LITTLE PEARL AND HER MOTHER. 


S O the mother and little Pearl were admit¬ 
ted into the hall of entrance. With 
many variations, suggested by the nature 
of his building-materials, diversity of climate, 
and a different mode of social life, Governor 
Bellingham had planned his new habitation 
after the residences of gentlemen of fair estate 
in his native land. 

Here, then, was a wide and reasonably lofty 
hall, extending through the whole depth of the 
house, and forming a medium of general com¬ 
munication, more or less directly, with all the 
other apartments. At one extremity, this spa¬ 
cious room was lighted by the windows of the 
two towers, which formed a small recess on 
either side of the portal. At the other end, 
though partly muffled by a curtain, it was 
more powerfully illuminated by one of those 
embowed hall-windows which we read of in old 
books, and which was provided with a deep 
and cushioned seat. 


Here, on the cushion, lay a folio tome, 
probably of the Chronicles of England, or 
other such substantial literature; even as, in 
our own days, we scatter gilded volumes on 
the centre-table, to be turned over by the 
casual guest. The furniture of the hall con¬ 
sisted of some ponderous chairs, the backs of 
which were elaborately carved with wreaths 
of oaken flowers; and likewise a table in the 
same taste; the whole being of Elizabethan 
age, or perhaps earlier, and heirlooms, trans¬ 
ferred hither from the governor’s paternal 
home. 

On the table—in token that the sentiment 
of old English hospitality had not been left 
behind—stood a large pewter tankard, at the 
bottom of which had Hester or Pearl peeped 
into it, they might have seen the frothy rem¬ 
nant of a recent draught of ale. 

On the wall hung a row of portraits, rep¬ 
resenting the forefathers of the Billingham 







NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


113 


lineage, some with armor on their breasts, 
and others with stately ruffs and robes of 
peace. All were characterized by the stern¬ 
ness and severity which old portraits so in¬ 
variably put on; as if they were the ghosts, 
rather than the pictures, of departed worthies, 
and were gazing with harsh and intolerant 
criticism at the pursuits and enjoyments of 
living men. 

At about the centre of the oaken panels 
that lined the hall was suspended a suit of 
mail, not, like the pictures, an ancestral relic, 
but of the most modern date; for it had been 
manufactured by a skillful armorer in Lon¬ 
don the same year in which Governor Bel¬ 
lingham came over to New England. There 
was a steel headpiece, a cuirass, a gorget and 
greaves, with a pair of gauntlets and a sword 
hanging beneath; all, and especially the 
helmet and breastplate, so highly burnished 
as to glow with white radiance and scatter 
an illumination everywhere about upon the 
floor. 

This bright panoply was not meant for 
mere idle show, but had been worn by the 
governor on many a solemn muster and 
training field, and had glittered, moreover, 
at the head of a regiment in the Pequod war. 
For, though bred a lawyer, and accustomed 
to speak of Bacon, Coke, Noye and Finch 


as his professional associates, the exigencies 
of this new country had transformed Gov¬ 
ernor Bellingham into a soldier, as well as a 
statesman and ruler. 

Little Pearl—who was as greatly pleased 
with the gleaming armor as she had been 
with the glittering frontispiece of the house 
—spent some time looking into the polished 
mirror of the breastplate. 

“ Mother,” cried she, “ I see you here 
Look! Look ! ” 

Hester looked, by way of humoring the 
child; and she saw that, owing to the pecu¬ 
liar effect of this convex mirror, the scarlet 
letter was represented in exaggerated and 
gigantic proportions, so as to be greatly the 
most prominent feature of her appearance. 
In truth, she seemed absolutely hidden be¬ 
hind it. 

Pearl pointed upward, also, at a similar 
picture in the headpiece, smiling at her mo¬ 
ther with the elfish intelligence that was so 
familiar an expression on her small physiog¬ 
nomy. That look of naughty merriment 
was likewise reflected in the mirror, with so 
much breadth and intensity of effect, that it 
made Hester Prynne feel as if it could not 
be the image of her own child, but of an imp 
who was seeking to mold itself into Pearl’s 
shape. 


MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE. 


T HE Old Manse!—we had almost forgot¬ 
ten it; but will return thither through 
the orchard. This was set out by the 
last clergyman, in the declines of his life, 
when the neighbors laughed at the hoary- 
headed man for planting trees from which he 
could have no prospect of gathering fruit. 
Even had that been the case, there was only 
so much the better motive for planting them, 
in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting 
his successors—an end so seldom achieved by 
more ambitious efforts. But the old minister, 
before reaching his patriarchal age of ninety, 
ate the apples from this orchard during many 
years, and added silver and gold to his annual 
stipend by disposing of the superfluity. 

8 


It is pleasant to think of him, walking 
among the trees in the quiet afternoons of early 
autumn, and picking up here and there a 
wind-fall; while he observes how heavily the 
branches are weighed down, and computes 
the number of empty flour-barrels that will be 
filled by their burden. He loved each tree, 
doubtless, as if it had been his own child. 
An orchard has a relation to mankind, and 
readily connects itself with matters of the 
heart. The tree possesses a domestic char¬ 
acter ; they have lost the wild nature of their 
forest kindred, and have grown humanized 
by receiving the care of man, as well as by 
contributing to his wants. 

I have met with no other such pleasant 





114 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


trouble in the world as that of finding myself, 
with only the two or three mouths which it 
was my privilege to feed, the sole inheritor of 
the old clergy man’s wealth of fruits. Through¬ 
out the summer there were cherries and cur¬ 
rants ; and then came autumn, with his im¬ 
mense burden of apples, dropping them con¬ 
tinually from his overladen shoulders as he 
trudged along. In the stillest afternoon, if I 
listened, the thump of a great apple was audi¬ 
ble, falling without a breath of wind, from the 
mere necessity of perfect ripeness. And, be¬ 
sides, there were pear-trees, that flung down 
bushels upon bushels of heavy pears; and 
peach-trees, which, in a good year, tormented 
me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, 
nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given 
away. 

The idea of an infinite generosity and in¬ 
exhaustible bounty, on the part of our mother 
nature, was well worth obtaining through such 
cares as these. That feeling can be enjoyed in 
perfection not only by the natives of summer 
islands, where the bread-fruit, the cocoa, the 
palm and the orange grow spontaneously, and 
hold forth the ever-ready meal; but, likewise, 
almost as well, by a man long habituated to 
city life, who plunges into such a solitude as 
that of the Old Manse, where he plucks the 


fruit of trees that he did not plant; and 
which, therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear 
closer resemblance to those that grew in Eden. 

Not that it can be disputed that the light 
toil requisite to cultivate a moderately sized 
garden imparts such zest to kitchen vegetables 
as is never found in those of the market- 
gardener. Childless men, if they would know 
something of the bliss of paternity, should 
plant a seed—be it squasb, bean, Indian corn, 
or perhaps a mere flower, or worthless weed— 
should plant it with their own hands, and 
nurse it from infancy to maturity, altogether 
by their own care. If there be not too many 
of them, each individual plant becomes an 
object of separate interest. 

My garden, that skirted the avenue of the 
Manse was of precisely the right extent. An 
hour or two of morning labor was all that it 
required. But I used to visit and revisit it a 
dozen times a day, and stand in deep contem¬ 
plation over my vegetable progeny, with a 
love that nobody could share or conceive of 
who had never taken part in the process of 
creation. It was one of the most bewitching 
sights in the world to observe a hill of beans 
thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas 
just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line 
of delicate green. 


THE VERNAL SEASON. 


T HANK Providence for spring ! The earth 
—and man himself, by sympathy with 
his birthplace—would be far other than 
we find them, if life toiled wearily onward, 
without this periodical infusion of the primal 
spirit. Will the world ever be so decayed 
that spring may not renew its greenness? 
Can man be so dismally age-stricken that no 
faintest sunshine of his youth may revisit him 
once a year ? It is impossible. The moss on 
our time-worn mansion brightens into beauty; 
the good old pastor, who once dwelt here, 
renewed his prime, regained his boyhood, in 
the genial breezes of his ninetieth spring. 


Alas for the worn and heavy soul, if, 
whether in youth or age, it have outlived its 
privilege of springtime sprightliness! From 
such a soul the world must hope no refor¬ 
mation of its evil—no sympathy with the 
lofty faith and gallant struggles of those who 
contend in its behalf. Summer works in th6 
present, and thinks not of the future; autumn 
is a rich conservative; winter has utterly lost 
its faith, and clings tremulously to the remem¬ 
brance of wbat has been ; but spring, with its 
outgushing life, is the true type of the move¬ 
ment. 





Mark Twain. 

American Humorist. 


NCE it would not have been predicted that American literature 
would ever include a class of professional humorists. Before 
the advent of those who make it a business to excite the laugh¬ 
ter of the public there were writers whose exquisite humor was 
fully acknowledged and appreciated. Who that has ever read 
some of the works of Washington Irving has not been charmed 
with his delicate humor? The same question might be asked concerning 
some of the earlier writings of Lowell. And even Hawthorne with his 
undercurrent of melancholy and serious thoughtfulness has given to his 
readers many a glimpse of the lighter and brighter side of the characters 
he depicts. 

The genius of a professional humorist is not the kind that writes a 
“ Paradise Lost,” or Macaulay’s Essays or Daniel Webster’s Orations. 
It is, however, just as truly genius, although of its own kind and bearing 
its own individuality. 

Among the most successful humorists who have made it their busi¬ 
ness to delight the public with their strange and witty conceits must be 
mentioned Mark Twain, a name which is the nom de plume of Samuel L. 
Clemens. Mr. Clemens was born at Florida, Missouri, November 30, 
1835. He learned the trade of a printer, became in 1855 a pilot on a 
river steamboat, and in 1861 was private secretary to his brother, who had 
been appointed Secretary of Nevada Territory. He afterwards lived in 
California and Hawaii, and later at Hartford, Conn., where he became 
known as a humorous lecturer. 

Having entered the field of authorship, his broad humor was soon 
recognized and gained for him a wide circle of readers. Among his works 
are “The Jumping Frog’’ (1867), “The Innocents Abroad” (1869), 
“ Roughing It ” (1872), “ A Tramp Abroad ” (1880), “ The Prince and the 
Pauper” (1882), and “Life on the Mississippi” (1883). The story and 
drama called “ The Gilded Age ” (1874) were written by him in conjunc- 

115 




116 


MARK TWAIN. 


tion with Mr. C. D. Warner. The play, especially, had a marvellous 
success. 

Mr. Clemens’ most successful work was “ The Innocents Abroad.” 
His other well known works are “Adventures of Tom Sawyer” (1876), 
“ Adventures of Huckleberry Finn ” (1885), and “ Personal Recollections 
of Joan of Arc” (1896). Other productions of more or less merit have 
been issued from time to time. 

Having established the publishing house of C. L. Webster & Co., 
Mr. Clemens issued the Memoirs of U. S. Grant, which the General 
finished shortly before his death. From the profits of this publication, 
$ 35 °> 000 were paid to Mrs. Grant in accordance with an agreement made 
by her distinguished husband before his death. The company failed in 
1895 an d made Mark Twain a poor man. He was heavily in debt, but 
like Walter Scott resolved to pay all that he owed. He went on a lectur¬ 
ing tour around the world, and returning, connected himself with the 
house of Harper Bros., in New York, and seems to have repeated the suc¬ 
cesses of his earlier life. 


PLAYING JOKES ON A GUIDE. 


E UROPEAN guides know about enough 
English to tangle every thing up so 
that a man can make neither head nor 
tail of it. They know their story by heart— 
the history of every statue, painting, cathe¬ 
dral, or other wonder they show you. They 
know it and tell it as a parrot would ; and if 
you interrupt, and throw them off the track, 
they have to go back and begin over again. 
All their lives long, they are employed in 
showing strange things to foreigners and lis¬ 
tening to their bursts of admiration. 

After we discovered this, we never went into 
ecstacies any more, we never admired any¬ 
thing, we never showed any but impassible 
faces and stupid indifference in the presence of 
the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. 
We had found their weak point. We made 
some of those people savage, at times, but we 
never lost our serenity. 

The doctor asked the questions generally, 
because he can keep his countenance, and look 
more like an inspired idiot, and throw more 
imbecility into the tone of his voice than any 
man that lives. It comes natural to him. 


The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure 
an American party, because Americans so 
much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment 
and emotion before any relic of Columbus. 
Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had 
swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of 
animation—full of impatience. 

He said: 

“ Come wis me, genteelmen!—come! I 
show you ze letter writing by Christopher 
Colombo!—write it himself!—write it wis his 
own hand !—come! ” 

He took us to the municipal palace. After 
much impressive fumbling of keys and opening 
of locks, the stained and aged document was 
spread before us. The guide’s eyes sparkled. 
He danced about us and tapped the parchment 
with his finger. 

“ What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not 
so ? See! handwriting Christopher Colombo! 
—write it himself! ” 

We looked indifferent, unconcerned. The 
doctor examined the document very deliber¬ 
ately, during a painful pause. Then he said, 
without auy show of interest, 









































MARK TWAIN. 


117 


“Ah—what—what did you say was the 
name of the party who wrote this ? ” 

“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christo¬ 
pher Colombo!” 

Another deliberate examination. 

“ Ah—did he write it himself, or—or how?” 

“He write it himself!—Christopher Co¬ 
lombo ! he’s own handwriting, write by him¬ 
self! ” 

Then the doctor laid the document down, 
and said, 

“ Why, I have seen boys in America only 
fourteen years old that could write better than 
that.” 

“ But zis is ze great Christo—•” 

“I don’t care who it is! It’s the worst 
writing I ever saw. Now you mustn’t think 
you can impose on us because we are stran¬ 
gers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If 
you have got any specimens of penmanship of 
real merit, trot them out!—and if you haven’t, 
drive on ! ” 

We drove on. The guide was considerably 
shaken up, but he made one more venture. 
He had something which he thought would 
overcome us. He said, 

“ Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show 
you beautiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher 
Colombo—splendid, grand, magnificent!” 

He brought us before the beautiful bust— 
for it was beautiful—and sprang back and 
struck an attitude: 

“Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand 
—bust Christopher Colombo!—beautiful bust, 
beautiful pedestal! ” 

The doctor put up his eye-glass—procured 
for such occasions: 

“Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s 
name was? ” 

“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christo¬ 
pher Colombo! ” 

“ Christopher Colombo—the great Christo¬ 
pher Colombo. Well, what did he do ? ” 

“ Discover America!—discover America, 
oh, ze devil! ” 

“ Discover America ? No—that statement 
will hardly wash. We are just from America 
ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Chris¬ 
topher Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he 
dead ? ” 


“ Oh, corpo di Baccho !—three hundred 
year! ” 

“ What did he die of? ” 

“I do not know. I cannot tell.” 

“ Small-pox, think ? ” 

“ I do not know, genteelmen—I do not 
know what he died of.” 

“ Measles, likely ? ” 

“ Maybe—maybe. I do not know—I think 
he die of something.” 

“ Parents living ? ” 

“ Im-possible! ” 

“ Ah—which is the bust and which is the 
pedestal ? ’ ’ 

“ Santa Maria!— zis ze bust l—zis ze ped¬ 
estal ! ” 

“Ah, I see, I see—happy combination— 
very happy combination indeed. Is—is this 
the first time this gentleman was ever on a 
bust ? ” 

That joke was lost on the foreigner; guides 
cannot master the subtleties of the American 
joke. 

We have made it interesting for this Roman 
guide. Yesterday we spent three or four 
hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful 
world of curiosities. We came very near 
expressing interest sometimes, even admira¬ 
tion. It was hard to keep from it. We suc¬ 
ceeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in 
the Vatican museums. The guide was be¬ 
wildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs 
off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, 
and exhausted all his ingenuity, on us, but it 
was a failure; we never showed any interest 
in anything. He had reserved what he con¬ 
sidered to be his greatest wonder till the last 
—a royal Egyptian mummy, the best pre¬ 
served in the world, perhaps. He took us 
there. He felt so sure, this time, that some 
of his old enthusiasm came back to him : 
“See, genteelmen !—Mummy ! Mummy ! ” 
The eye-glass came up as calmly, as delib¬ 
erately as ever. 

“ Ah—what did I understand you to say 
the gentleman’s name was? ” 

“Name?—he got no name!—Mummy!— 
’Gyptian mummy ! ” 

“ Yes, yes. Born here ? ” 

“No. ’ Gyptian mummy.” 



118 


MARK TWAIN. 


“ Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume ? ” 

“ No !—not Frenchman, not Roman !—born 
in Egypta! ” 

“ Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta 
before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy— 
mummy. How calm he is, how self-pos¬ 
sessed! Is—ah—is he dead?” 

“ Oh, sacre bleu ! been dead three thousan’ 

year! ” 


The doctor turned on him savagely ! 

*’ Here, now, what do you mean by such 
conduct as this? Playing us for Chinamen 
because we are strangers and trying to learn! 
Trying to impose your vile second-hand car¬ 
casses on us! Thunder and lightning! I’ve 
a notion to—to—if you’ve got a nice fresh 
corpse, fetch him out!—or, by George, we’ll 
brain you! ” 


THE BABIES. 

At a banquet tendered to General Grant at Chicago, Mark Twain amused the company by 
responding to the toast on Babies. He spoke as follows: 


T OAST :—“ The Babies—As they comfort 
us in our sorrows, let us not forget them 
in our festivities.” 

I like that. We haven’t all had the good 
fortune to be ladies; we haven’t all been gen¬ 
erals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the 
toast works down to the babies, we stand on 
common ground, for we have all been babies. 
It is a shame that for a thousand years the 
world’s banquets have utterly ignored the 
baby—as if he didn’t amount to anything! 
If you gentlemen will stop and think a min¬ 
ute,—if you will go back fifty or a hundred 
years, to your early married life, and recon¬ 
template your first baby, you will remember 
that he amounted to a good deal, and even 
something over. You soldiers all know that 
when that little fellow arrived at family 
headquarters you had to hand in your resig¬ 
nation. 

It took entire command. You became his 
lackey, his mere body-servant, and you had 
to stand around, too. He was not a com¬ 
mander who made allowances for time, dis¬ 
tance, weather, or anything else. You had 
to execute his orders whether it was possible 
or not. And there was only one form of 
marching in his manual of tactics, and that 
was the double-quick. He treated you with 
every sort of insolence and disrespect, and the 
bravest of you didn’t dare to say a word. You 
could face the death-storm of Donelson and 
Vicksburg, and give back blow for blow; but 
when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled 


your hair, and twisted your nose, you had to 
take it. 

When the thunders of war were sounding 
in your ears, you set your faces toward the 
batteries and advanced with steady tread; 
but when he turned on the terrors of his war- 
whoop, you advanced in the other direction— 
and mighty glad of the chance, too. When 
he called for soothing syrup, did you venture 
to throw out any side remarks about certain 
services unbecoming an officer and a gentle¬ 
man? No,—you got up and got it. If he 
ordered his bottle, and it wasn’t warm, did 
you talk back? Not you,—you went to work 
and warmed it. You even descended so far 
in your menial office as to take a suck at that 
warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was 
right,—three parts water to one of milk, a 
touch of sugar to modify the colic, and a drop 
of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccups. 
I can taste that stuff yet. 

And how many things you learned as you 
went along; sentimental young folk still took 
stock in that beautiful old saying that when 
the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the 
angels are whispering to him. Very pretty, 
but “too thin,”—simply wind on the stomach, 
my friends. If the baby proposed to take a 
walk at his usual hour, 2.30 in the morning, 
didn’t you rise up promptly and remark— 
with a mental addition which wouldn’t im¬ 
prove a Sunday-school book much—that that 
was the very thing you were about to propose 
yourself? Oh, you were under good disci- 





MARK TWAIN. 


119 


pline! And as you went fluttering up and 
down the room in your “ undress uniform ” 
you not only prattled undignified baby-talk, 
but even tuned up your martial voices and 
tried to sing “ Rock-a-by baby in a tree-top,” 
for instance. What a spectacle for an Army 
of the Tennessee. 

And what an affliction for the neighbors 


too—for it isn’t everybody within a mile 
around that likes military music at three in 
the morning. And when you had been keep¬ 
ing this sort of thing up two or three hours, 
and your little velvet-head intimated that 
nothing suited him like exercise and noise,— 
“ Go on! ”—what did you do ? You simply 
went on, till you disappeared in the last ditch. 


MARK TWAIN’S WATCH. 


M Y beautiful new watch had run eighteen 
months without losing or gaining, and 
without breaking any part of its 
machinery, or stopping. I had come to believe 
it infallible in its judgments about the time of 
day, and to consider its constitution and its 
anatomy imperishable. But at last, one night, 
I let it run down. I grieved about it as if it 
were a recognized messenger and forerunner 
of calamity. But by-and-by I cheered up, set 
the watch by guess, and commanded my bod- 
ings and superstitions to depart. Next day I 
stepped into the chief jeweler’s to set it by the 
exact time, and the head of the establishment 
took it out of my hand and proceeded to set 
it for me. Then he said, “ She is four minutes 
slow—regulator wants pushing up.” I tried 
to stop him—tried to make him understand 
that the watch kept perfect time. 

But no ; all this human cabbage could see 
was that the watch was four minutes slow, and 
the regulator must be pushed up a little; and 
so, while I danced around him in anguish, and 
implored him to let the watch alone, he clamly 
and cruelly did the shameful deed. My watch 
began to gain. It gained faster and faster 
day by day. Within the week it sickened to 
a raging fever, and its pulse went up to a 
hundred and fifty in the shade. At the end 
of two months it had left all timepieces of the 
town far in the rear, and was a fraction over 
thirteen days ahead of the almanac. 

It was away into November enjoying the 
snow, while the October leaves were still turn¬ 
ing. It hurried up house rent, bills payable, 
and such things, in such a ruinous way that I 
could not abide it. I took it to the watch¬ 
maker to be regulated. He asked me if I had 


ever had it repaired. I said no, it had never 
needed any repairing. He looked a look of 
vicious happiness and eagerly pried the watch 
open, and then put a small dice box into his 
eye and peered into its machinery. He said 
it wanted cleaning and oiling, besides regulat¬ 
ing—come in a week. 

After being cleaned, and oiled, and regu¬ 
lated, my watch slowed down to that degree 
that it ticked like a tolling bell. I began to 
be left by trains, I failed all appointments, I 
got to missing my dinner; my watch strung 
out three day’s grace to four and let me go to 
protest; I gradually drifted back into yester¬ 
day, then day before, then into last week, and 
by-and-by the comprehension came upon me 
that all solitary and alone I was lingering 
along in week before last, and the world was 
out of sight, I seemed to detect in myself a 
sort of sneaking fellow-feeling for the mummy 
in the museum, and a desire to swop news with 
him. 

I went with a heavy heart to one more 
watchmaker, and looked on while he took her 
to pieces. Then I prepared to cross-question 
him rigidly, for this thing was getting serious. 
The watch had cost two hundred dollars 
originally, and I seemed to have paid out two 
or three thousand for repairs. While I waited 
and looked on I presently recognized in this 
watchmaker an old acquaintance—a steam¬ 
boat engineer of other days, and not a good 
engineer either. He examined all the parts 
carefully, just as the other watchmakers had 
done, and then delivered his verdict. 

He said—“She makes too much steam— 
you want to hang the monkey-wrench on the 
safety valve!” 





James Russell Lowell. 

Poet and Diplomatist. 



MERICANS have reason for pride and satisfaction in the illustri¬ 
ous names of those who have given to our country a distinctive 
literature; for it is not too much to say that we have a literature 
with a marked individuality. It is not patterned after that of 
any other country, but is original, free, and unconventional. 
It partakes of our physical and national characteristics. 
Among the most strong and original of our authors is James Russell 
Lowell. 

Mr. Lowell, the son of the Rev. Charles Lowell, of Boston, was born 
February 22, 1819. Having graduated at Harvard in 1838, he entered 
the law school of that institution, where he remained two years, and was 
admitted to the bar in 1841 ; but he soon abandoned the profession, that 
he might devote himself wholly to literature. 

He published in 1844 a volume of poems containing a “ Legend of 
Brittany,” “Prometheus,” and a number of smaller pieces. In 1848 
appeared a second collection of poems, and in a small volume (separately) 
“ The Vision of Sir Launfal.” In the same year he also published the 
“ Biglow Papers,” a witty and humorous satire, written in the “ Yankee ” 
dialect, on the events of the Mexican War, and a “ Fable for Critics,” a 
charming jeu d’esprit, which, in the words of Professor Bowen, is “ a very 
witty review article done into rhyme.” It is not too much to say that the 
best parts of this poem (which, by the way, is very unequal) are scarcely 
surpassed either in wit or in felicity of expression by anything of a simi¬ 
lar kind in the English language. 

In the summer of 1851 Mr. Lowell visited Europe, and returned 
home after an absence of somewhat more than a year. In the winter of 
1854-55 he delivered in Boston a very popular course of lectures on the 
British poets. Professor Longfellow having, in 1854, resigned the chair 
of modern languages and belles-lettres at Harvard, Mr. Lowell was 
appointed his successor in January, 1855. On the establishment of the 
“ Atlantic Monthly ” in 1857, Professor Lowell became the editor—a posi- 
120 




JAMES RUSSELE LOWELL. 


121 


tion which he held about five years—and under his auspices this maga¬ 
zine acquired a wide and deserved popularity. 

Among his noteworthy poetical productions we may mention “ Under 
the Willows, and other Poems” (1869), and “The Cathedral” (1870)- 
Besides the various collections of his poems referred to above, he pub“ 
lished several volumes of his prose writings, entitled “ Among My Books’’ 
(1870), second series (1876) and “ My Study Windows” (1871). 

Among the poets of America, Lowell is distinguished by the great 
range, as well as by the versatility, of his powers. He seems equally at 
home in the playful, the pathetic, or the meditative realms of poetry. 
And we always rise from the perusal of his productions with the impres¬ 
sion that he has not put forth all his strength, but that something still 
higher would not have been beyond the reach of his genius. 

In 1877 he was appointed United States minister to Spain, and from 
1879 until his removal by President Cleveland in 1885 he was minister to 
England. In 1883 was chosen lord rector of St. Andrew’s University, 
and while in England he received the degree of LL. D. from the Universi¬ 
ties of Oxford, Cambridge and Edinburgh. Died August 12, 1891. 

In 1844 Lowell married Maria White, a lady of singular beauty and 
poetic temperament, who was also an ardent abolitionist. It is commonly 
admitted that she greatly influenced his political sentiments. She died in 
1853, on the same night in which a daughter was born to Longfellow, who 
was a friend and neighbor of Lowell. This incident was celebrated by 
Longfellow in the following lines which he sent to his friend: 

“ ’Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mine 
The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 

Pausing, descended, and with voice divine 
Uttered a word that had a sound like death. 

“Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 

A shadow on those features fair and thin, 

And slowly, from that hushed and darkened room, 

Two angels issued, where but one went in. 

“ Angels of life and death alike are His; 

Without His leave, they pass no threshold o’er: 

Who then would wish, or dare, believing this, 

Against His messengers to shut the door ? ” 

Lowell’s last work is entitled “ Latest Literary Essays and Addres¬ 
ses.” It was issued in 1891, after bis death. 


122 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

HEBE. 


I SAW the twinkle of white feet, 

I saw the flash of robes descending ; 
Before her ran an influence fleet, 

That bowed my heart like barley bending. 

As, in bare fields, the searching bees 
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, 

It led me on—by sweet degrees, 

Joy’s simple honey-cells unbinding. 

Those graces were that seemed grim fates; 

With nearer love the sky leaned o’er me; 
The long-sought secret’s golden gates 
On musical hinges swung before me. 

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp 
Thrilling with godhood ; like a lover, 


I sprang the proffered life to clasp— 

The beaker fell; the luck was over. 

The earth has drunk the vintage up ; 

What boots it patch the goblet’s splinters? 
Can summer fill the icy cup 

Whose treacherous crystal is but winter’s ? 

0 spendthrift haste! await the gods; 

Their nectar crowns the lips of patience. 
Haste scatters on unthankful sods 
The immortal gift in vain libations. 

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, 

And shuns the hands would seize upon her 
Follow thy life, and she will sue 
To pour for thee the cup of honor. 


WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. 

FROM “ THE BIQLOW PAPERS.” 


G UVENER, B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an’ looks arter 
his folks; 

He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, 

An’ into nobody’s tater-patch pokes;— 

But John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

My! ain’t it terrible? Wut shall we du? 

We can’t never choose him o’ course,— 
thet’s flat; 

Guess we shall hev to come round, (don’t 
you?) 

An’ go in fer thunder an’ guns, an’ all that; 
Fer John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 

He’s ben on all sides thetgive places or pelf; 
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,— 
He’s ben true to one party,—an’ thet is 
himself;— 

So John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 


We were gittin’ on nicely up here to our village, j 
With good old idees o’ wut’s right an’ wut 
ain’t, [pillage, 1 

We kind o’ thought Christ went agin war an’ 
An’ thet eppyletts worn’t the best mark of 

But John P. [a saint; 

Robinson he 

Sez this kind o’ thing’s an exploded idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be took. 

An’ President Polk, you know, he is our 
country; 

An’ the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
Puts the debit to him, an’ to us theper contry; 

An’ John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez this is his view o’ the thing to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ; 1 
Sez they’re nothin’ on airth but jest fee, faw, | 
furn; 

And thet all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half ov it ign’ance, an’ t’other half rum: 

But John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez it ain’t no sech thing; an’, of course, 
so must we. 







JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


123 


Parson "Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life 
Thet th’ Apostles rigged out in their swaller- 
tail coats, 

An’ marched round in front of a drum an’ a 
fife. 

To git some on ’em office, an’ some on ’em 
votes: 

But John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in 
Judee. 


Wal, it’s a marcy we’ve gut folks to tell us 
The rights an’ the wrongs o’ these matters, 
I vow,- 

God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise 
fellers, 

To drive the world’s team when it gits in a 
slough; 

Fer John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez the world’ll go right, ef he hollers out 
Gee! 


WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 


M Y coachman, in the moonlight there, 

Looks through the side-light of the door; 
I hear him with his brethren swear, 

As I could do—but only more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane, 

He envies me my brilliant lot, 

Breathes on his aching fists in vain, 

And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me in to supper go, 

A silken wonder by my side, 

Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 
Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is my arm 

’Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; 
And wishes me some dreadful harm, 

Hearing the merry corks explode. 


Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 
And envy him, outside the door, 

In golden quiets of the moon. 

The winter wind is not so cold 

As the bright smile he sees me win, 
Nor the host’s oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

I envy him the ungyved prance 

By which his freezing feet he warms, 
And drag my lady’s chains, and dance 
The galley-slave of dreary forms. 

Oh, could he have my share of din, 
And I his quiet!—past a doubt 
’Twould still be one man bored within, 
And just another bored without. 


THE COURTIN’. 


G OD makes sech nights, all white an’ still 
Fur ’z you can look or listen. 
Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, 

All silence an’ all glisten. 

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown 
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder, 

An’ there sot Huldy all alone, 

’Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room’s one side 
With half a cord o’ wood in— 

There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin’. 


The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her 
An’ leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 

An’ in amongst ’em rusted 
The ole queen’s arm thet gran’ther Young 
Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 

Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’, 

An’ she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin’. 







124 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


’T was kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look 
On sech a blessed cretur, 

A dogrose blushin’ to a brook 
Ain’t modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o’ man, A 1, 

Clean grit an’ human natur’; 

None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He’d sparked it with full twenty gals, 

Hed squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em, 
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells— 
All is, he couldn’t love ’em. 

But long o’ her his veins ’ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple, 

The side she breshed felt full o’ sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap’il. 

She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing 
Ez hisn in the choir; 

My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, 
She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
When her new meetin’-bunnet 
Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair 
O’ blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 

She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul, 

For she felt sartin-sure he’d come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu, 
A-raspin’ on the scraper,— 

All ways to once her feelin’s flew 
Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o’ the sekle, 

His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 


An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder. 

An’ on her apples kep’ to work, 

Parin’ away like murder. 

“ You want to see my Pa, I s’pose ? ” 

“ Wal . . . no . . . I come dasignin’ ”— 
“ To see my Ma ? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es 
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.” 

To say why gals acts so or so, 

Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’; 

Mebby to mean yes an’ say no 
Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust, 

Then stood a spell on t’other, 

An’ on which one he felt the wust 
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther. 

Says he, “ I’d better call agin ”; 

Says she, “ Think likely, Mister ”; 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
An’ . . . Wal, he up an’ kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 

All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips 
An’ teary roun’ the lashes. 

For she was jes’ the quiet kind 
Whose naturs never vary, 

Like streams that keep a summer mind 
Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood dost roun’ her heart felt glued 
Too tight for all expressin’, 

Tell mother see how metters stood, 

And gin ’em both her blessin’. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy, 

An’ all I know is they was cried 
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday. 















































Helen Hunt Jackson. 

Writer of Poetry and Fiction. 


K of the brightest writers who grace our literature was born 
on the breezy Amherst Hill, Mass., October 18, 1831. Her 
father was Professor Fiske of Amherst College, and at an early 
period in life she gave evidence of superior talent as a writer. 
She was carefully and thoroughly educated at Ipswich Female 
Seminary, Mass. During her academical days she fitted herself 
for the distinguished career which afterward she pursued, by which she 
became well known and popular as a magazine writer, essayist and poetess. 

In 1852 she married an officer of the United States Navy, Captain 
Edward B. Hunt, and lived with him at various posts until his death which 
occurred in 1863. Having then taken up her residence at Newport, R. I., 
she was bereft of her children, one after another, and in 1872 was left 
entirely alone. It was not until after the death of her first husband that 
she devoted herself to literature with all her energy. In 1870 she 
brought out a collection of poems published under the title of “ Verses 
from H. H.” This volume was followed in rapid succession by others, all 
of which clearly evinced her genius and gained for her a wide reputation. 
Both in poetry and prose she attracted attention and her magazine articles 
were of a very high order. 

Everything that came from her pen was characterized with a grace¬ 
ful force and vigor, and at the same time, remarkable delicacy and felicity 
of expression. Her health having become impaired she removed to 
Colorado in 1873. In 1875 she married William S. Jackson, a merchant 
of Colorado Springs. There at the foot of Pike’s Peak, with rugged, 
picturesque surroundings, in sight of perpetual snow, she passed the 
remainder of her life. She made frequent excursions through the East¬ 
ern States, New Mexico and California, thereby enriching her stock of 
material for the works she was preparing for the press. 

She met with a painful accident in 1884, resulting in a bad fracture 
of one of her limbs, but went to Calfornia before she had fully recovered. 
There she was an easy subject for malaria, and having suffered from this 

125 




126 


HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 


for some time, cancer then developed and she died August 12, 1885. Lov¬ 
ing hands made her grave in Colorado, and according to her expressed 
wish, she was buried on the peak that looks down into Cheyenne Canyon. 
This was a spot she loved. In a cabin below she had lived, and had passed 
some of the happiest days of her life. There in the quiet and solitude 
of the mountains she retired from the gaze of the world, and there she 
wished to rest when her pen was palsied. 

In addition to “Verses by H. H.,” already referred to, she wrote 
“ Bits of Travel ” (1873); “ Bits of Talk about Home Matters ’’ (1873); 
“Sonnets and Lyrics” (1876); “Mercy Philbrick’s Choice” (1876); 
“Hettie’s Strange History” (1877); “A Century of Dishonor ” (1881); 
“Ramona” (1884), an Indian story. In addition to these works she 
was the author of several popular juvenile books. She wrote two novels 
in the “ No Name ” series, which attracted much attention at the time of 
their publication. There appeared in one of our magazines several 
fascinating, delightful stories under the pen name of “ Saxe Holme.” 
Although it has never been authoratively stated that she was the author, 
these charming stories have generally been attributed to her. 


SPINNING. 


L 


IKE a blind spinner in the sun, 

I tread my days; 

I know that all the threads will run 
Appointed ways; 

I know each day will bring its task, 
And, being blind, no more I ask. 


My threads will have; so from the first, 
Though blind, I never felt accurst. 


I do not know the use or name 
Of that I spin : 

I only know that some one came, 

And laid within 

My hand the thread, and said, “ Since you 
Are blind, but one thing you can do.” 


I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung 
From one short word 
Said over me when I was young,— 

So young, I heard 

It, knowing not that God’s name signed 
My brow, and sealed me his, though blind. 


Sometimes the threads so rough and fast 
And tangled fly, 

I know wild storms are sweeping past, 
And fear that I 

Shall fall; but dare not try to find 
A safer place, since I am blind. 


But wLether this be seal or sign 
Within, without, 

It matters not. The bond divine 
I never doubt. 

I know he set me here, and still, 
And glad, and blind, I wait his will; 


I know not why, but I am sure 
That tint and place, 
In some great fabric to endure 
Past time and race, 


But listen, listen, day by day, 

To hear their thread 
Who bear the finished web away. 

And cut the thread, 

And bring God’s message in the sun, 
“Thou poor blind spinner, work is done.” 




HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 
THE NEWSBOY’S DEBT. 


127 


O NLY last year, at Christmas time, 
While pacing down a city street, 

I saw a tiny, ill-clad boy— 

One of the thousands that we meet— 

He stood and gazed with wistful face, 

All a child’s longing in his eyes; 

Then started, as I touched his arm, 

And turned in quick, mechanic wise. 

Kaised his torn cap with purple hands, 

Said, “ Paper, sir? Sun, Star, Times! ” 
And brushed away a freezing tear 

That marked his cheek with frosty rimes. 

“ How many have you ? Never mind— 
Don’t stop to count—I’ll take them all; 
And when you pass my office here 
With stock on hand, give me a call.” 

He thanked me with a broad Scotch smile, 

A look half wondering and half glad. 

I fumbled for the proper “ change,” 

And said, “ You seem a little lad 

“To rough it in the streets like this.” 

“ I’m ten years old this Christmas time! ” 
“Your name?” “Jim Hanley.” “Here’s a 
bill— 

I’ve nothing else, but this one dime— 

“ Five dollars. When you get it changed 
Come to my office—that’s the place. 

Now wait a bit, there’s time enough : 

You need not run a headlong race. 

“ Where do you live ? ” “ Most anywhere. 

We hired a stable loft to-day, 

Me and two others.” “ And you thought 
The fruiter’s window pretty, hey ? 

“ And you are cold ? ” “ Aye, just a bit. 

I don’t mind cold.” “ Why, that is strange!” 
He smiled and pulled his ragged cap, 

And darted off to get the “ change.” 

So, with half unconscious sigh, 

I sought my office desk again. 

An hour or more my busy wits 

Found work enough with book and pen. 

But when the mantel clock struck five 
I started with a sudden thought, 


For there beside my hat and cloak 
Lay those six papers I had bought. 

“Why, where’s the boy, and where’s the 
* change’ 

He should have brought an hour ago ? 

Ah, well! ah, well! they’re all alike ! 

I was a fool to tempt him so! 

“Dishonest! Well, I might have known; 

And yet his face seemed candid, too. 

He would have earned the difference 
If he had brought me what was due.” 

Just two days later, as I sat, 

Half dozing in my office chair, 

I heard a timid knock, and called, 

In my brusque fashion, “Who’s there?” 

An urchin entered, barely seven— 

The same Scotch face, the same blue eyes— 
And stood half doubting, at the door, 
Abashed at my forbidding guise. 

“ Sir, if you please, my brother Jim— 

The one you gave the bill, you know— 

He couldn’t bring the money, sir, 

Because his back was hurted so. 

“ He didn’t mean to keep the ‘ change,’ 

He got runned over up the street; 

One wheel went right across his back, 

And t’other fore-wheel mashed his feet. 

“They stopped the horses just in time, 

And then they took him up for dead ; 

And all that day and yesterday 
He wasn’t rightly in his head. 

“ They took him to the hospital— 

One of the newsboys knew ’twas Jim— 
And I went too, because, you see, 

We two are brothers, I and him. 

“ He had that money in his hand, 

And never saw it any more. 

Indeed, he didn’t mean to steal! 

He never lost a cent before. 

“ He was afraid that you might think 
He meant to keep it any way. 

This morning, when they brought him to, 

He cried because he couldn’t pay. 



128 


HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 


“ He made me fetch his jacket here; 

It’s torn and dirtied pretty bad, 

It’s only fit to sell for rags. 

But then you know it’s all he had! 

“ When he gets well—it won’t be long— 

If you will call the money lent, 

He says he’ll work his fingers off 
But what he’ll pay you every cent.” 

And then he cast a rueful glance 
At the soiled jacket, where it lay. 

“ No, no, my boy! Take back the coat. 
Your brother’s badly hurt, you say? 

“ Where did they take him ? Just run out 
And hail a cab, then wait for me. 

Why, I would give a thousand coats, 

And pounds, for such a boy as he! ” 


A half hour after this we stood 
Together in the crowded wards, 

And the nurse checked the hasty steps 
That fell too loudly on the boards. 

I thought him smiling in his sleep, 

And scarce believed her when she said, 

Smoothing away the tangled hair 

From brow and cheek, “The boy is dead!” 

Dead ? Dead so soon ? How fair he looked, 
One streak of sunshine on his hair. 

Poor lad ! Well, it is warm in heaven : 

No need of “ change ” and jackets there. 

And something rising in my throat 
Made it so hard for me to speak, 

I turned away, and left a tear 
Lying upon his sunburned cheek. 


“I CHOOSE THAT COLOR.” 


T HE other day, as I was walking on one 
of the oldest and most picturesque 
streets of the old and picturesque town 
of Newport, R. I., I saw a little girl standing 
before the window of a milliner’s shop. 

“ Yes’m. I’d like a goon av thit blue.” 

“ But you will take cold standing in the 
wet,” said I. “ Won’t you come under my 
umbrella ? ” 

She looked down at her wet dress suddenly, 
as if it had not occurred to her before that it 
was raining. Then she drew first one little 
foot and then the other out of the muddy 
puddle in which she had been standing, and, 
moving a little closer to the window, said, 
“ I’m not jist goin’ home, mem. I’d like to 
stop here a bit.” 

So I left her. But, after I had gone a few 
blocks, the impulse seized me to return by a 
cross street, and see if she were still there. 
Tears sprang to my eyes as I first caught sight 
of the upright little figure, standing in the 
same spot, still pointing with the rhythmic 
finger to the blues and reds and yellows, and 
half chanting under her breath, as before, “ I 


choose that color.” “ I choose that color.’’ 
“ I choose that color.” 

I went quietly on my way, without disturb¬ 
ing her again. But I said in my heart, “ Lit¬ 
tle Messenger, Interpreter, Teacher! I will 
remember you all my life.” 

We can “choose” our colors. It rains, per¬ 
haps ; and we are standing in the cold. Never 
mind. If we look earnestly enough at the 
brightness which is on the other side of the 
glass, we shall forget the wet and not feel the 
cold And now and then a passer-by, who 
has rolled himself up in furs to keep out the 
cold, but shivers nevertheless,—who has money 
in his purse to buy many colors, if he likes, 
but, nevertheless, goes grumbling because some 
colors are too dear for him,—such a passer-by, 
chancing to hear our voice, and see the atmos¬ 
phere of our content, may learn a wondrous 
secret,—that pennilessness is not poverty, and 
ownership is not possession ; that to be without 
is not always to lack, and to reach is not to 
attain ; that sunlight is for all eyes that look 
up, and color for those who “ choose.” 





George Bancroft. 

Historian and Statesman. 


O historian in either hemisphere has done more admirable work 
than Mr. Bancroft. Gifted with fine mental endowments, which 
were zealously cultivated, he was pre-eminently qualified to 
write his country’s history, and set the great events of that 
history in their true order, allowing them to speak for them¬ 
selves with au eloquence to which nothing could be added. 

Two essential requisites belong to every historian who is worthy of 
the name. He must be able to trace the logical sequence between events, 
and he must be absolutely without prejudice or partisan bias. He does 
not create facts; he sets them forth, and they tell their own story. Mr. 
Bancroft is a peerless historian. He was born in Worcester, Massachus¬ 
etts, in the year 1800. His father, the Reverend Aaron Bancroft, D. D., 
who died at an advanced age in 1839, after having been for more than half 
a century minister of a Congregational church in that town, was a theo¬ 
logical and historical writer of some reputation, and was eminently dis¬ 
tinguished for the liberality of his views, the kindness of his manners, 
and the spotless purity of his character. 

At the early age of thirteen Mr. Bancroft entered Harvard College, 
where he graduated in 1817, with the first honors of his class. He had 
determined to study theology, and his essay on this occasion, for which 
he received from the corporation one of the Bowdoin prizes, was 011 the 
Use and Necessity of Revelation. In the following year, he went to Ger¬ 
many, and devoted himself two years to the study of history and philology, 
under Professor Heeren, at Gottingen, where he received the degree of 
Doctor of Philosophy. He then went to Berlin, where he became ac¬ 
quainted with Schlosser, the first of German historians, who awakened 
his taste for history. Before his return he also visited Italy and France, 
and stayed a short time in London. 

He had not entirely abandoned his design of entering the ministry. 
Indeed he preached a few times, in a manner that induced predictions 
that he would greatly distinguish himself in the pulpit. But he was dis- 






130 


GEORGE BANCROFT. 


posed to devote himself to literature and learning, and cherished dreams 
of successful authorship. His first book was a small collection of Poems, 
chiefly illustrative of his experiences and observations abroad, which 
appeared in 1823. 

Soon after this he opened the Round School at Northampton, Mass., 
and devoted himself assiduously to teaching. He now began to give more 
attention to politics, first as a Whig and then as a Democrat. In 1834 
Mr. Bancroft published the first volume of his History of the Colonization 
of the United States, which was everywhere received with the liveliest 
applause. The reputation which he acquired by this and other literary 
labors, and the ability he exhibited as a politician, commended him to the 
notice of the dispensers of place and patronage in Washington, and he 
was appointed to the lucrative post of Collector of Customs at Boston. 
His official duties did not divert him from his studies, and in 1837 he 
gave to the press the second and in 1840 the third volume of his History. 

In 1845 Mr- Bancroft was called into the Cabinet of President Polk 
as Secretary of the Navy. He resigned in 1846 and was appointed Min¬ 
ister Plenipotentiary to Great Britain, a position which he filled with dis¬ 
tinguished ability until 1849. A period of retirement from public life 
followed his return to America. In the Civil War he was heartily in 
accord with our national government, and in 1867 was appointed by Presi¬ 
dent Johnson Minister to Berlin, serving with much honor to his country 
until recalled at his own request in 1874. He died January 17th, 1891. 

Mr. Bancroft’s monumental work is “ The History of the United 
States,” in ten volumes. This from every point of view is a masterly 
production. A volume of his “ Miscellanies ” appeared in 1855 ; “ Abra¬ 
ham Lincoln,” a memorial address delivered before Congress, in 1866; 
and “Joseph Reed,” a historical essay, appeared in 1867. Several other 
works of minor importance were the products of his prolific pen, all dis¬ 
tinguished by the engaging style, the profound thought, and the historical 
accuracy which have characterized all his writings. In all of his public 
life he exhibited a remarkable wisdom, courage and far-sightedness. 

An English critic describes Bancroft’s History as one of “ great 
research, while the author states his own opinions decidedly and strongly, 
the whole being pervaded by a fair aud just spirit. The style is vigorous, 
clear and frank, not often rising into eloquence, but frequently pictur¬ 
esque, and always free from imitation and from pedantry. It is in fact 
what it professes to be—a national work, and is worthy of its great theme.” 


GEORGE BANCROFT. 


131 


The following extracts, all from Bancroft’s “ History of the United 
States,” convey an excellent idea of his graphic and attractive style, and 
masterly treatment of persons and events : 

EULOGIUM ON ANDREW JACKSON. 


N O man in private life so possessed the 
hearts of all around him—no public 
man of this century ever returned to 
private life with such an abiding mastery over 
the affections of the people. No man with 
truer instinct received American ideas—no 
man expressed them so completely, or so 
boldly or so sincerely. He was as sincere a 
man as ever lived, He was wholly, always, 
and altogether sincere and true. Up to the 
last, he dared to do anything that it was right 
to do. He united personal courage and 
moral courage beyond any man of whom his¬ 
tory keeps the record. Before the nation, 
before the world, before coming ages, he 
stands forth the representative, for his genera¬ 
tion, of the American mind. 

And the secret of his greatness is this: by 
intuitive conception, he shared and possessed 
all the creative ideas of his country and his 
time. He expressed them with dauntless in¬ 
trepidity; he enforced them with an immov¬ 
able will; he executed them with an electric 
power, that attracted and swayed the Amer¬ 
ican people. The nation, in his time, had not 
one great thought, of which he was not the 
boldest and clearest expositor. 

History does not describe the man that 
equalled him in firmness of nerve. Not 


danger, not an army in battle array, not 
wounds, not wide-spread clamor, not age, not 
the anguish of disease, could impair, in the 
least degree, the vigor of his steadfast mind. 
The heroes of antiquity would have contem¬ 
plated with awe the unmatched hardihood of 
his character; and Napoleon, had he possessed 
his disinterested will, could never have been 
vanquished. Andrew Jackson never was 
vanquished. He was always fortunate. He 
conquered the wilderness; he conquered the 
savage; he conquered the bravest veterans 
trained in the battle-fields of Europe; he 
conquered everywhere in statesmanship; and, 
when death came to get the mastery over him, 
he turned that last enemy aside as tranquilly 
as he had done the feeblest of his adversaries, 
and escaped from earth in the triumphant 
consciousness of immortality. 

His body has its fit resting place in the 
great central valley of the Mississippi; his 
spirit rests upon our whole territory; it 
hovers over the vales of Oregon, and guards 
in advance, the frontier of Del Norte. The 
fires of party spirit are quenched at his grave. 
His faults and frailties have perished. What¬ 
ever of good he has done lives, and will live 
forever. 


THE CONNECTICUT COLONISTS. 


T HERE was nothing morose in the Con¬ 
necticut character. It was temperate 
industry enjoying the abundance which it 
had created. No great inequalities of condi¬ 
tion excited envy, or raised political feuds; 
wealth could display itself only in a larger 
house and a fuller barn; and covetousness 
was satisfied by the tranquil succession of har¬ 
vests. There was venison from the hills; 
salmon, in their season, not less than shad, 
from the rivers; and sugar from the trees of 


the forest. For a foreign market little was 
produced beside cattle; and in return for them 
but few foreign luxuries stole in. 

Even so late as 1713, the number of seamen 
did not exceed one hundred and twenty. The 
soil had originally been justly divided, or 
held as common property in trust for the pub¬ 
lic, and for new comers. Forestalling was 
successfully resisted ; the brood of speculators 
in land inexorably turned aside. Happiness 
was enjoyed unconsciously; beneath the rug- 






132 


GEORGE BANCROFT. 


ged exterior humanity wore its sweetest smile. | 
There was for a long time hardly a lawyer in 
the land. The husbandman who held his own 
plough, and fed his own cattle, was the great 
man of the age; no one was superior to the 
matron, who, with her busy daughters, kept 
the hum of the wheel incessantly alive, 
spinning and weaving every article of their 
dress. 

Fashion was confined within narrow limits; 
and pride, which aimed at no grander equi¬ 
page than a pillion, could exult only in the 
common splendor of the blue and white linen 
gown, with short sleeves, coming down to the 
waist, and in the snow-white flaxen apron, 
which, primly starched and ironed, was worn 
on public days by every ■woman in the land. 
For there was no revolution except from the 
time of sowing to the time of reaping; from 
the plain dress of the week day to the more 
trim attire of Sunday. 

Every family was taught to look upward 
to God, as to the Fountain of all good. Yet 
life was not sombre. The spirit of fiolic ming¬ 
led with innocence; religion itself somtimes 


wore the garb of gayety; and the annual 
thanksgiving to God was, from primitive 
times, as joyous as it was sincere. Nature 
always asserts her rights, and abounds in means 
of gladness. 

The frugality of private life had its influ¬ 
ence on public expenditure. Half a century 
after the concession of the character, the an¬ 
nual expenses of the government did not ex¬ 
ceed eight hundred pounds, or four thousand 
dollars; and the wages of the chief justice 
were ten shillings a day while on service. In 
each county a magistrate acted as judge of 
probate, and the business was transacted with 
small expense to the fatherless. 

Education was always esteemed a concern 
of deepest interest, and there were common 
schools from the first. Nor was it long before 
a small college, such as the day of small things 
permitted, began to be established ; and Yale 
owes its birth “ to ten worthy fathers, who, in 
1700, assembled at Branford, and each one, 
laying a few volumes on a table, said, ‘ I give 
these books for the founding of a college, in 
this colony.’ ” 


THE HUGUENOTS IN CAROLINA. 


W HAT need of describing the stripes, the 
roastings by slow fires, the plunging 
into wells, the gashes from knives, 
the wounds from red-hot pincers, and all the 
cruelties employed by men who were only for¬ 
bidden not to ravish nor to kill ? The loss of 
lives cannot be computed. How many thou¬ 
sands of men, how many thousands of children 
and women, perished in the attempt to escape, 
who can tell? An historian has asserted that 
ten thousand perished at the stake, or on the 
gibbet and the wheel. 

But the efforts of tyranny were powerless. 
Truth enjoys serenely her own immortality; 
and opinion, which always yields to a clearer 
conviction, laughs violence to scorn. The un¬ 
paralleled persecution of vast masses of men 
for their religious creed, occasioned but a new 
display of the power of humanity; the Cal¬ 
vinists preserved their faith over the ashes of 
their churches, and the bodies of their mur¬ 
dered ministers. 


The power of a brutal soldiery was defied 
by whole companies of faithful men, that still 
assembled to sing their psalms; and from the 
country and the city, from the comfortable 
homes of wealthy merchants, from the abodes 
of an humbler peasantry, from the workshops 
of artisans, hundreds of thousands of men rose 
up, as with one heart, to bear testimony to the 
indefeasible, irresistible right to freedom of 
mind. 

Every wise government was eager to offer a 
refuge to the upright men who would carry to 
other countries the arts, the skill in manufac¬ 
tures, and the wealth of France. Emigrant 
Huguenots put a new aspect on the north of 
Germany, where they filled entire towns and 
sections of cities, introducing manufactures 
before unknown. A suburb of London was 
filled with French mechanics; the Prince of 
Orange gained entire regiments of soldiers, as 
brave as those whom Cromwell led to victory; 
a colony of them reached even the Cape of 












WASHINGTON IRVING AND HIS LITERARY FRIENDS AT SUNNYSIDE 








GEORGE BANCROFT. 


133 


Good Hope. In our American colonies they 
were welcome everywhere. The religious sym¬ 
pathies of New England were awakened ; did 
any arrive in poverty, having barely escaped 
with life?—the towns of Massachusetts con¬ 
tributed liberally to their support, and pro¬ 


vided them with lands. Others repaired to 
New York; but the warmer climate was 
more inviting to the exiles of Languedoc, and 
South Carolina became the chief resort of 
the Huguenots. 


WILLIAM PENN. 


P ENN, despairing of relief in Europe, bent 
the whole energy of his mind to accom¬ 
plish the establishment of a free govern¬ 
ment in the New World. For that “heavenly 
end,” he was prepared by the severe discipline 
of life, and the love, without dissimulation, 
which formed the basis of his character. The 
sentiment of cheerful humanity was irrepressi¬ 
bly strong in his bosom; as with John Eliot 
and Roger Williams, benevolence gushed 
prodigally from his ever-flowing heart; and 
when, in his late old age, his intellect was im¬ 
paired, and his reason prostrated by apoplexy, 
his sweetness of disposition rose serenely over 
the clouds of disease. 

Possessing an extraordinary greatness of 
mind, vast conceptions, remarkable for their 
universality and precision, and “surpassing in 


speculative endowments; ” conversant with 
men, and books, and governments, with vari¬ 
ous languages, and the forms of political com¬ 
binations, as they existed in England and 
France, in Holland, and the principalities 
and free cities of Germany, he yet sought the 
source of wisdom in his own soul. Humane 
by nature and by suffering ; familiar with the 
royal family; intimate with Sunderland and 
Sydney; acquainted with Russel, Halifax, 
Shaftesbury, and Buckingham ; as a member 
of the Royal Society, the peer of Newton and 
the great scholars of his age—he valued the 
promptings of a free mind more than the 
awards of the learned, and reverenced the 
single-minded sincerity of the Nottingham 
shepherd more than the authority of colleges 
and the wisdom of philosophers. 







Nathaniel Parker Willis. 

Author of “ Sacred Poems.” 


THOUGH Mr. Willis was a versatile writer and liad tlie 
faculty of turning his pen to almost any subject, he is far less 
known by his notes of travel and society sketches than by 
those charming poems on biblical subjects which have handed 
his name down to the present generation. Willis’ “ Sacred 
Poems ” have long been favorites with the more thoughtful 
and devout of the reading public. 

Nathaniel P. Willis was born at Portland, in Maine, on the twentieth 
day of January, 1807. During his childhood his parents removed to Bos¬ 
ton ; and at the Latin school in that city, and at the Philips Academy in 
Audover, he pursued his studies until he entered Yale College, in 1823. 
While he resided at New Haven, as a student, he won a high reputation, 
for so young an author, by a series of “ Scripture Sketches,” and a few 
other brief poems; and it is supposed that the warm and too indiscrimi¬ 
nate praises bestowed upon these productions, influenced unfavorably his 
subsequent progress in the poetic art. 

He was graduated in 1827, and in the following year he published a 
“ Poem delivered before the Society of United Brothers of Brown Univer¬ 
sity,” which, as well as his “ Sketches,” issued soon after he left college, 
was very favorably noticed in the best periodicals of the time. He also 
edited “The Token,” a well-known annual, for 1828; and about the 
same period published, in several volumes, “ The Legendary,” and estab¬ 
lished “ The American Monthly Magazine.” To this periodical several 
young writers, who afterward became distinguished, were contributors; 
but the articles by its editor, constituting a large portion of each number, 
gave to the work its character, and were, of all its contents, the most 
popular. In 1830 it was united to the “New York Mirror,” of which 
Mr. Willis became one of the conductors; and he soon after sailed for 
Europe, to be absent several years. 

He travelled over Great Britain, and the most interesting portions of 




NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 


135 


the continent, mixing largely in society, and visiting every thing worthy 
of his regard as a man of letters, or as an American ; and his “ First Im¬ 
pressions ” were given in his letters to the “ Mirror,” in which he de¬ 
scribed, with remarkable spirit and fidelity, and in a style peculiarly 
graceful and elegant, scenery and incidents, and social life among the 
polite classes in Europe. His letters were collected and republished in 
London, under the title of “ Pencillings by the Way,” and violently 
attacked in several of the leading periodicals, ostensibly on account of 
their too great freedom of personal detail. 

In 1835 Mr- Willis was married in England. He soon after pub¬ 
lished his “ Inklings of Adventure,” a collection of tales and sketches 
originally written for a London magazine, under the signature of “ Philip 
Slingsby; ” and in 1837 returned to the United States, and retired to 
his beautiful estate 011 the Susquehanna, named “ Glenmary,” in compli¬ 
ment to one of the most admirable wives that ever gladdened a poet’s 
solitude. In the early part of 1839 h e became one of the editors of “ The 
Corsair,” a literary gazette, and in the autumn of that year went again to 
London, where, in the following winter, he published his “ Loiterings of 
Travel,” in three volumes, and “ Two Ways of Dying for a Husband,” 
comprising the plays “ Bianca Visconti,” and “ Tortesa the Usurer.” 

In 1840 appeared the illustrated edition of his poems, and his “ Let¬ 
ters from Under a Bridge,” and he retired a second time to his seat in 
western New York. Besides the works already mentioned, he is the 
author of “ American Scenery,” and of “ Ireland,” two works illustrated 
in a splendid manner by Bartlett, and of numerous papers in the reviews, 
magazines, and other periodicals. 

The prose and poetry of Mr. Willis are alike distinguished for ex¬ 
quisite finish and melody. His language is pure, varied, and rich; his 
imagination brilliant, and his wit of the finest quality. Many of his de¬ 
scriptions of natural scenery are written pictures; and no other author 
has represented with equal vivacity and truth the manners of the age. 
His dramatic poems have been the most successful works of their kind 
produced in America. They exhibit a deep acquaintance with the com¬ 
mon sympathies and passions, and are as remarkable as his other writ¬ 
ings for affluence of language and imagery and descriptive power. Mr. 
Willis died in 1867. 


136 


NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 


TO A FACE BELOVED. 


T HE music of the wakened lyre 

Dies not upon the quivering strings, 
Nor burns alone the minstrel’s lire 
Upon the lip that trembling sings; 
Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, 

Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells, 

Nor sleeps the fountain’s wealth, I ween, 
Forever in its sparry wells; 

The spells of the enchanter lie 
Not on his own lone heart, his own rapt ear 
and eye. 

I look upon a face as fair 

As ever made a lip of heaven 
Falter amid its music-prayer! 

The first-lit star of summer even 
Springs not so softly on the eye, 

Nor grows, with watching half so bright. 
Nor, mid its sisters of the sky, 

So seems of heaven the dearest light; 


; Men murmur where that face is seen— 

My youth’s angelic dream was of that look 
and mien. 

i Yet, though we deem the stars are blest, 

And envy, in our grief, the flower 
i That bears but sweetness in its breast, 

| And feared the enchanter for his power, 
And love the minstrel for his spell 
lie winds out of his lyre so well; 

The stars are almoners of light, 

The lyrist of melodious air, 

The fountain of its waters bright, 

And every thing most sweet and fair 
Of that by which it charms the ear, 

The eye of him that passes near; 

A lamp is lit in woman’s eye 
That souls, else lost on earth, remember an¬ 
gels by. 


HAGAR IN THE 

HE morning passed, and Asia’s sun rode 

up 

In the clear heaven, and every beam 
was heat. 

The cattle of the hills were in the shade, 

And the bright plumage of the Orient lay 
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 

It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found 
No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
She kept her weary way, until the boy 
Hung down his head, and opened his parched 
lips 

For water; but she could not give it him. 

She laid him down beneath the sultry sky— 
For it was better than the close, hot breath 
Of the thick pines—and tried to comfort him ; 
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not 
know 

Why God denied him water in the wild. 

She sat a little longer, and he grew 
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. 

It was too much for her. She lifted him, 

And bore him further on, and laid his head 


WILDERNESS. 

Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub; 

And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
Till he should die; and, watching him, she 
mourned: 

“ God, stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 

I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 
Upon thy brow to look, 

And see death settle on my cradle-joy. 

How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 
And could I see thee die ? 

“ I did not dream of this when thou wer^ 
straying, 

Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers; 

Or wearing rosy hours, 

By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 

So beautiful and deep. 

“ O, no! and when I watched by thee the 
while, 

And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, 
And thought of the dark stream 







NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 


137 


In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 

How prayed I that my father’s land might be 
An heritage for thee! 

“ And now the grave for its cold breast hath 
won thee, 

And thy white delicate limbs the earth will 
press; 

And, O ! my last caress 
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. 


How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there 
Upon his clustering hair! ” 

She stood beside the well her God had 
given 

To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
The forehead of her child until he laughed 
In his reviving happiness, and lisped 
His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
Of the cool plashing of his mother’s hand. 


TWO WOMEN. 


T HE shadows lay along Broadway, 

’T was near the twilight-tide, 

And slowly there a lady fair 
Was walking in her pride. 

Alone walked she; but viewlessly, 
Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 
And honor charmed the air 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair,— 

For all God ever gave to her 
She kept with chary care. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 
From lovers warm and true. 

For her heart was cold to all but gold 


And the rich came not to woo, — 

But honored well are charms to sell 
If priests the selling do. 

Now walking there was one more fair, — 

A slight girl, lily pale; 

And she had unseen company 
To make the spirit quail,— 

’Twixt want and scorn she walked forlorn 
And nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world’s peace to pray; 

For, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air, 
Her woman’s heart gave way! 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
By man is cursed alway ! 


SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 


I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play, 

And persuade myself that I am not old, 
And my locks are not yet gray ; 

For it stirs the blood in an old man’s heart, 
And makes his pulses fly, 

To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore years, 
And they say that I am old— 

That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 
And my years are well-nigh told. 

It is very true—it is very true— 

I am old, and I “ bide my time 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
And I half renew my prime. 


Play on! play on! I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring; 

I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 

And the rush of the breathless swing. 

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 

And I whoop the smothered call, 

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
And I shall be glad to go— 

For the world, at best, is a weary place, 

And my pulse is getting low; 

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
In treading its gloomy way; 

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 
To see the young so gay. 







Th omas Buchanan Read. 

Poet and Artist. 


ENERAL Sheridan, the famous commander of cavalry, performed 
one of the bravest and most thrilling deeds of our Civil War 
when he rallied his flying troops in the valley of the Shenan¬ 
doah, and Thomas Buchanan Read immortalized that renowned 
victory by a spirited representation of it on canvass and by the 
poem which is universally known as “ Sheridan’s Ride.” This 
of itself were enough to secure for the poet a lasting fame. To write a 
poem that finds its way into almost every home in our whole country, is 
an achievement worthy of note. 

Mr. Read was born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, in 1822. He 
visited Italy in 1850, and subsequently spent some time in England, 
where he published a collection of poems, which were very favorably 
received. He afterward resided several years at Florence and Rome, 
whence he returned in 1858. Among his works may be named his prose 
romance “ The Pilgrims of the Great Saint Bernard,” and his poems of 
“The House by the Sea.” “The New Pastoral,” (1855) “ Sylvia, or the 
Lost Shepherd,” etc. (1857) an( ^ “ The Wagoner of the Alleghenies, a 
Poem,” (1862). 

Among his best pictures are his group of “ Longfellow’s Children,” 
and “ Sheridan’s Ride,” illustrating one of his most popular poems. He 
died May 11, 1872. 



THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 


B ETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn 
Is the lowly home where I was born; 
The peach-tree leans against the wall, 
And the woodbine wanders over all; 

There is the shaded doorway still, 

But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill. 

There is the barn—and, as of yore, 

I can smell the hay from the open door, 

And see the busy swallow’s throng, 

138 


And hear the peewee’s mournful song ; 

But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof— 
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 

There is the orchard—the very trees 
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, 
And watched the shadowy moments run 
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun : 
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, 
But the stranger’s children are swinging there. 





THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 


139 


There hubbies the shady spring below, 

With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; 
'Twas there I found the calamus-root, 

And watched the minnows poise and shoot, 
And heard the robin lave his wing, 

But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring. 

Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, 

Step lightly, for I love it still; 

And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 
Then think what countless harvest sheaves 
Have passed within that seented door 
To gladden eyes that are no more ! 


Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; 

And when your children crowd their knees, 
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, 

As if old memories stirred their heart; 

To youthful sport still leave the swing, 

And in sweet reverence hold the spring. 

The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds, 
The meadows with their lowing herds, 

The woodbine on the cottage wall— 

My heart still lingers with then all. 

Ye strangers on my native sill, 

Step lightly, for I love it still! 


THE CLOSING SCENE. 

The following is pronounced by the “ Westminster Review ” to be unquestionably the finest 
American poem ever written. 


W ITHIN this sober realm of leafless trees, 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, 
Like some tanned reaper in his hour of 
ease, 

When all the fields are lying brown and 
bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills 
O’er the dim waters widening in the vales, 
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 

On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds sub¬ 
dued, 

The hills seemed further and the streams 
sang low; 

As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muffled blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 
Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in time’s remotest blue. 

On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight, 
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate’s 
complaint, 

And, like a star slow drowning in the light, 
The village church-vane seemed to pale and 
faint. 

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew— 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before— 


Silent till some replying wanderer blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where erst the jay within the elm’s tall crest 
Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged 
young; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest 
By every light wind like a censer swung; 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
The busy swallows circling ever near, 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 

An early harvest and a plenteous year; 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal 
feast 

Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at 
morn, 

To warn the reapers of the rosy East— 

All now were songless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail, 
And croaked the crow through all the 
dreamy gloom, 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers • 
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night 
by night; 

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
Sailed slowly by—passed noiseless out of 
sight. 





140 


THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 


Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 

And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch— 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous 
tread, 

Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread. 

She had known sorrow. He had walked with 
her, 

Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen 
crust; 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
Of his black mautle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer 
bloom, 

Her country summoned, and she gave her 
all; 


And twice war bowed to her his sable plume— 
Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. 

Re-gavethe swords, but not the hand that drew, 
And struck for liberty the dying blow ; 

Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
Fell, ’mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremu¬ 
lous tone. 

At last the thread was snapped—her head was 
bowed; 

Life drooped the distaff 1 through his hands 
serene; 

And loving neighbors smoothed her careful 
shroud— 

j While death and winter closed the autumn 
scene. 


THE BRICKMAKER. 


L ET the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground, 

And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulded. 

In no stately structures skilled, 

What the temple we would build ? 

Now the massive kiln is risen— 

Call it palace—call it prison ; 

View it well: from end to end 
Narrow corridors extend 
Long, and dark, and smothered aisles : 
Choke its earthly vaults with piles 
Of the resinous yellow pine ; 

Now thrust in the fettered Fire— 
Hearken! how he stamps with ire. 
Treading out the pitchy wine ; 
Wrought anon to wilder spells, 

Hear him shout his loud alarms; 
See him thrust his glowing arms 
Through the windows of his cells. 

But his chains at last shall sever; 
Slavery lives not forever; 

And the thickest prison wall 
Into ruin yet must fall. 

Whatsoever falls away 
Spriugeth up again, they say; 


Then, when this shall break asunder, 
And the fire be freed from under, 

Tell us what imperial thing 
From the ruin shall upspring ? 

There shall grow a stately building— 
Airy dome and columned walls; 

Mottoes writ in richest gilding 
Blazing through its pillared halls. 

In those chambers, stern and dreaded, 
They, the mighty ones, shall stand ; 

There shall sit the hoary-headed 
Old defenders of the land. 

There shall mighty words be spoken, 
Which shall thrill a wondering world ; 

Then shall ancient bonds be broken, 

And new banners be unfurled. 

But anon those glorious uses 

In these chambers shall lie dead, 

And the world’s antique abuses, 
Hydra-headed, rise instead. 

But this wrong not long shall linger— 
The old capitol must fall; 

For, behold! the fiery finger 
Flames along the fated wall. 







■Vi» 
















ROBcnr brown/ng 


RUWW'O^'P '-"* 6 


J-OR o 




CTOR 


^LAY 




















Horace Greeley. 

The Peerless Journalist. 


has been remarked by some one that it was once customary in 
towns on our western frontier to swear witnesses in court on a 
copy of the “ New York Tribune,” if it should so happen that 
no Bible was handy. This will do very well to illustrate the 
vast influence Mr. Greeley’s famous journal possessed. It was 
“ law and gospel ” in many parts of our country. Men knew 
what they believed as soon as they found out what Horace Greeley believed. 

Mr. Greeley was born of plain parents at Amherst, N. H., February 
3, 1811. He received a limited common school education, which he 
improved by application to private studies; his pursuit of knowledge 
was carried on with unwearied activity. When fourteen years old, his 
father removed to Vermont, and he became an apprentice in the office of 
the “Northern Spectator,” at Pultney, Vt. He returned home in 1830, 
at the discontinuance of the paper, but soon after, his father having 
removed to Chatauqua Co., N. Y., on the Pennsylvania line, he became 
an apprentice in Erie, Pa., for fifty dollars a year. Out of this small 
sum, he gave his father more than one-half, and in August, 1831, started 
for New York, and entered the city, the scene of his future labors and 
triumphs, with a suit of blue cotton jean, two brown shirts, and five 
dollars in cash, as his working capital. 

He worked at his trade as journeyman printer for eighteen months. 
In 1834, in conjunction with Jonas Winchester, he commenced the publi¬ 
cation of the “ New Yorker,” a weekly paper of sixteen pages, quarto. 
Though conducted, for several years, with much ability as a political and 
literary journal, it was abandoned as unsuccessful. Mr. Greeley also 
conducted the “Jeffersonian” for the Whig Central Committee of the 
State, and for six months the “ Log Cabin,’’ a campaign paper in the 
presidential election of 1840. 

On Saturday, April 10, 1841, appeared the first number of his new 

141 






142 


HORACE GREELEY. 


paper, “ The New York Tribune,” which at once took its stand as a 
thoroughly appointed, independent, and spirited journal. 

In July, he associated with him in its management as partner, Mr. 
McElrath. With increased facilities, it was kept fully up to the needs of 
the times, and became noted for its enterprise, and its full, early and cor¬ 
rect news. As the organ of the tariff party, upholding anti-slavery, 
advocating the cause of temperance, and other prominent topics of the 
times, it soon became well-known, and a power in the land. 

Mr. Greeley always took a leading part in the politics of the country, 
belonging to the old Whig party. In 1848 he was elected a member of 
the House of Representatives. In 1851 he visited Europe, and was 
chosen chairman of one of the juries of the World’s Fair at London. 
On his return he published “ Glances at Europe,” letters written to the 
“ Tribune.” In 1853 he edited a volume of papers from the “ Tribune,” 
“ Art and Industry as Represented in the Exhibition at the Crystal 
Palace, New York.” Also “ Hints Towards Reforms,” addresses delivered 
on various occasions. Mr. Greeley wrote his autobiography, which had 
a large sale; this he revised and issued in octavo, with the new title of 
“Recollections of a Busy Life.” He also published “History of the 
Struggle for Slavery Extension or Restriction in the U. S. from 1787 to 
1856,” which passed through several editions; and, “ The Tribune 
Almanac,” a yearly mass of facts, particularly valuable to politicians; 
a new edition of these photographed on stone, in 2 vols., was isued in 1869, 
a most remarkable event in the annals of book making. 

His great work is “ The American Conflict: A History of the Great 
Rebellion, its Causes, Incidents and Results;” published in 2 vols., with 
maps and illustrations, and sold by subscription ; it reached the enormous 
sale of 150,000 copies. Mr. Greeley’s position, both before and during 
the war, as one of the leaders on the side of the North, rendered his 
action in going bail for Jefferson Davis, when he was captured by Federal 
troops, a startling surprise. A storm of reproach beat upon him, and in 
one of the most caustic articles that ever appeared in an American 
newspaper he defended himself and put his enemies completely to 
rout. His sword gleamed and his buckler shone when he was in a con¬ 
troversy. 

Yet Mr. Greeley was mild, warm-hearted, generous, and always seek¬ 
ing to help the poor, the vicious and those who were struggling upward. 
“ Go West, young man,” he used to say, “ and grow up with the country.’’ 



HORACE GREELEY. 


143 


His advice was followed by many who became prominent in every walk 
of life and filled positions of usefulness. 

In 1872 occurred a surprise in politics. Mr. Greeley was nominated 
for the Presidency by Liberal Republicans and bolting Democrats. He 
went heart and soul into the campaign, but although fondly hoping for 
success, he was overwhelmingly defeated. About this time his wife died, 
a great blow for him, and his own death, from inflammation of the brain, 
occurred November 29, 1872. 


THE GREAT SENATORS. 


O UR great triumvirate—Clay, Webster, 
Calhoun—last appeared together in 
public life iu the Senate of 1849-50 ; 
the two former figuring conspicuously in the 
debates which preluded and resulted in what 
was termed the Compromise of that year— 
Mr. Calhoun dying as they had fairly opened, 
and Messrs. Clay and Webster not long after 
their close. These lines are, therefore, in some 
sort, my humble tribute to their genius and 
their just renown. 

I best knew and loved Henry Clay; he was 
by nature genial, cordial, courteous, gracious, 
magnetic, winning. When General Glascock, 
of Georgia, took his seat in Congress as a 
Representative, a mutual friend asked, “ Gen¬ 
eral, may I introduce you to Henry Clay?” 
“No, sir! ” was the stern response; “ I am his 
adversary, and choose not to subject myself to 
his fascination.” I think it would have been 
hard to constitute for three or four years a 
legislative body whereof Mr. Clay was a 
member, and not more than four-sevenths 
were his pledged, implacable opponents, 
whereof he would not have been the master¬ 
spirit, and the author and inspirer of most of 
its measures, after the first or second year. 

Mr. Webster was colder, graver, sterner, in 
his general bearing: though he could unbend 
and be sunny and blithe in his intercourse 
with those admitted to his intimacy. There 
were few gayer or more valued associates on a 
fishing or sailing party. His mental calibre 
was much the larger ; I judge that he had 
read and studied more; though neither could 
boast much erudition, not even intense appli¬ 
cation. I believe each was about thirty years 


I in Congress, where Mr. Clay identified his 
name with the origin or success of at least half 
a dozen important measures to every one thus 
blended with Mr. Webster’s. Though Web¬ 
ster’s was far the more massive intellect, Mr. 
Clay as a legislator evinced far the greater 
creative, constructive power. 

I once sat in the Senate Chamber when Mr. 
Douglas, who had just been transferred from 
the House, rose to move forward a bill in 
which he was interested. “ We have no such 
practice in the Senate, sir,” said Mr. Webster, 
in his deep, solemn voice, fixing his eye on the 
mover, but without rising from his seat. Mr. 
Douglas at once varied his motion, seeking to 
achieve his end in a somewhat different way. 
“ That is not the way we do business in the 
Senate, sir,” rejoined Mr. Webster, still more 
decisively and sternly. “ The Little Giant ” 
was a bold, ready man. not easily overawed 
or disconcerted; but, if he did not quiver 
under the eye and voice of Webster, then my 
eyesight deceived me—and I was very near 
him. 

Mr. Calhoun was a tall, spare, earnest, evi¬ 
dently thoughtful man, with stiff, iron-gray 
hair, which reminded you of Jackson’s about 
the time of his accession to the Presidency. 
He was eminently a logician—terse, vigorous, 
relentless. He courted the society of clever, 
aspiring young men who inclined to fall into 
his views, and exerted great influence over 
them. As he had abandoned the political 
faith which I distinguish and cherish as 
National while I was yet a school-boy, I never 
met him at all intimately; yet once, while I 
was connected with mining on Lake Superior, 





144 


HORACE GREELEY. 


I called on him, as on other leading members 
of Congress, to explain the effect of the absurd 
policy then in vogue of keeping mineral lauds 
out of market, and attempting to collect a 
percentage of the mineral as rent accruing to 
the Government. 

He received me courteously, and I took 
care to make my statement as compact and 
perspicuous as I could, showing him that, 
even in the lead region, where the system had 
attained its full development, the Treasury 
did not receive enough rent to pay the salaries 
of the officers employed in collecting it. 


“Enough,” said Mr. Calhoun, “you are 
clearly right. I will vote to give away these 
lands, rather than perpetuate this vicious 
system.” “We only ask, Mr. Calhoun,” I 
rejoined, “that Congress fix on the lands 
whatever price it may deem just, and sell 
them at that price to those lawfully in posses¬ 
sion ; they failing to purchase, then to whom¬ 
soever will buy them.” “That plan will have 
my hearty support,” he responded; and it 
did. When the question came at length to be 
taken up, I believe there was no vote in either 
House against selling the mineral lands. 


THE PRESS. 


L ONG slumbered the world in the darkness 
of error, 

And ignorance brooded o’er earth like 
a pall; 

To the sceptre and crown men abased them in 
terror, 

Though galling the bondage, and bitter the 
thrall; 

When a voice, like the earthquake’s revealed 
the dishonor— 

A flash, like the lightning’s unsealed every 
eye, 

And o’er hill-top and glen floated liberty’s 
banner, 

While round it men gathered to conquer or 
die! 

’Twas the voice of the Press, on the startled 
ear breaking, 

In giant-born prowess, like Pallas of old ; 
Twas the flash of intelligence, gloriously wak¬ 
ing 

A glow on the cheek of the noble and bold; 
And tyranny’s minions, o’erawed and af¬ 
frighted, 

Sought a lasting retreat from its powerful 
control, 

And the chains which bound nations in ages 
benighted. 

Were cast to the haunts of the bat and the 
mole. 


Tlien hail to the Press! chosen guardian of 
F reedom! 

Strong sword-arm of justice! bright sun¬ 
beam of truth ; 

We pledge to her cause (and -she has but to 
need them), 

The strength of our manhood, the fire of 
our youth; 

Should despots e’er dare to impede her free 
soaring, 

Or bigot to fetter her flight with his chain, 

We pledge that the earth shall close o’er our 
deploring, 

Or view her in gladness and freedom again. 

But no! — to the day-dawn of knowledge and 

glory, 

A far brighter noontide-refulgence suc¬ 
ceeds, 

And our art shall embalm, through all ages, 
in story, 

Her champion who triumphs—her martyr 
who bleeds, 

And proudly her sons shall recall their devo¬ 
tion 

While millions shall listen to honor and 

bless, 

Till there bursts a response from the heart’s 
strong emotion, 

And the earth echoes deep with “ Long Life 
to the Press ! ” 





James Parton. 

Essayist and Biographer. 



LTHOUGH Mr. Parton was born at Canterbury, England, 
February 9, 1822, lie was brought to this country when five 
years old, and may be said to have grown up to be a typical 
American with a literary turn of mind. After a brief educa¬ 
tion and career as a teacher, he became a contributor to various 
periodicals, including the “ Home Journal,” but his well-earned 
fame rests upon the biographies he wrote, which are among the very best 
ever published in the United States. 

His first published work was the “ Life of Horace Greeley,” issued 
in 1855 and enlarged in 1869. It was successful from the first. After 
editing the “ Humorous Poetry of the English Language,” he brought 
out, in 1859, U Eife all< i Times of Aaron Burr,” which presented 
Burr’s character in a less repulsive aspect than that in which it had been 
commonly regarded. 

In i860 he issued a “ Life of Andrew Jackson ” in four volumes. 
His patient research, his impartial spirit, his appreciation of the grand 
points in Jackson’s character, and his terse, vigorous style combined to 
make this a remarkable biography, the best ever written upon “ Old 
Hickory.” During the Civil War Mr. Parton took an active interest in 
passing events. He was an avowed admirer of Benjamin F. Butler, and 
in 1863 he published, “ General Butler in New Orleans.” This was a 
history of General Butler’s administration of the Department of the Gulf 
in the year 1862. 

Continuing his work, Mr. Parton brought out his “ Life and Times 
of Benjamin Franklin,” in two volumes, in 1864. This admirable work 
added to the already brilliant reputation of its author. After issuing a 
biography of John Jacob Astor he wrote “ Famous Americans of Recent 
Times,” containing lives of Clay, Webster, Calhoun, Randolph, Girard, 
Bennett, Goodyear, Beecher, Vanderbilt, etc. These works, all of a 
high order, show the varied studies and researches of Mr. Parton. He 

10 145 





146 


JAMES PARTON. 


became a popular and well-known author, and was engaged to write 
statedly for Robert Bonner’s “Ledger’’ and “Youth’s Companion.” 
These publications were greatly enriched by the charming products of 
his pen. 

His last work was a “ Life of Voltaire.” His aim was to present the 
great Frenchman in his true character aud soften down some of the 
aspersions which had been falsely cast upon his name, but the work did 
not meet with the success of some of his previous publications, owing 
perhaps to the fact that the subject was a foreigner, and owing perhaps, 
still further, to the fact that the subject was Voltaire. In 1855 Mr. Par- 
ton married Sarah Payson Kldredge, formerly Miss Willis, a sister of 
N. P. Willis, who had been once married, her husband having died in 
1846. This gifted lady was known under the nom de plume of Fanny 
Fern, whose sketches and piquant thoughts enjoyed an almost phenome¬ 
nal popularity. Mr. Partou died October 17, 1891. 


THE DUEL BETWEEN 

FROM “LIFE OF 

F EW of the present generation have stood 
upon the spot, which was formerly one 
of the places that strangers were sure to 
visit on coming to the city, and which the 
events of this day rendered forever memorable. 
Two miles and a half above the city of Ho¬ 
boken, the heights of Weehawken rise, in the 
picturesque form so familiar to New Yorkers, 
to an elevation of a hundred and fifty feet 
above the Hudson. These heights are rocky, 
very steep, and covered with small trees and 
tangled bushes. Under the heights, at a 
point half a mile from where they begin, there 
is, twenty feet above the water, a grassy ledge 
or shelf, about six feet wide, and eleven paces 
long. This was the fatal spot. Except that 
it is slightly encumbered with underbrush, it 
is, at this hour, precisely what it was on the 
11th of July, 1804. 

For the very purpose of preventing sus¬ 
picion, it had been arranged that Colonel 
Burr’s boat should arrive some time before 
the other. About half past six, Burr and 
Van Ness landed, and leaving their boat a 
few yards down the river, ascended over the 


HAMILTON AND BURR. 

AARON BURR.” 

rocks to the appointed place. It was a warm, 
bright, July morning. The sun looks down, 
directly after rising, upon the Weehawken 
heights, and it was for that reason that the 
two men removed their coats before the ar¬ 
rival of the other party. There they stood 
carelessly breaking away the branches of the 
underwood, and looking out upon as fair, as 
various, as animated, as beautiful a scene as 
mortal eyes in this beautiful world ever be¬ 
held. 

Hamilton’s boat was seen to approach. A 
few minutes before seven it touched the rocks, 
and Hamilton and his second ascended. The 
principals and seconds exchanged the usual 
salutations, and the seconds proceeded imme¬ 
diately to make the usual preparations. They 
measured ten full paces ; then cast lots for the 
choice of position, and to decide who should 
give the word. The lot, in both cases, fell to 
General Hamilton’s second, who chose the 
upper end of the edge for his principal, which, 
at that hour of the day, could not have been 
the best, for the reason that the morning sun, 
and the flashing of the river, would both inter- 




JAMES PARTON. 


147 


fere with the sight. The pistols were then 
loaded, and the principals placed, Hamilton 
looking over the river toward the city, and 
Burr turned toward the heights, under which 
they stood. As Pendleton gave Hamilton his 
pistol, he asked, 

“ Will you have the hair-spring set ? ” 

“ Not this time,” was the quiet reply. 

Pendleton then explained to both principals 
the rule which had been agreed upon with re¬ 
gard to the firing; after the word present, they 
were to fire as soon as they pleased. The 
seconds then withdrew to the usual distance. 

“ Are you ready ? ” said Pendleton. 

Both answered in the affirmative. A mo¬ 
ment’s pause ensued. The word was given. 
Burr raised his pistol, took aim, and fired. 
Hamilton sprang upon his toes with a convul¬ 


sive movement, reeled a little toward the 
heights, at which moment he involuntarily 
discharged his pistol, and then fell forward 
headlong upon his face, and remained mo¬ 
tionless on the ground. His ball rustled 
among the branches, seven feet above the 
head of his antagonist, and four feet wide of 
him. Burr heard it, looked up, and saw 
where it had severed a twig. Looking at 
Hamilton, he beheld him falling, and sprang 
toward him with an expression of pain upon 
his face. But at the report of the pistol, Dr. 
Hosack, Mr. Davis and the boatman hurried 
anxiously up the rocks to the scene of the 
duel; and Van Ness, with presence of mind, 
seized Burr, shielded him from observation 
with an umbrella, and urged him down the 
steep to the boat. 


OLD VIRGINIA. 


O LD VIRGINIA is a pathetic chapter in 
political economy. Old Virginia, in¬ 
deed ! She reached decrepitude while 
contemporary communities were enjoying the 
first vigor of youth; while New York was 
executing the task which Virginia’s George 
Washington had suggested and foretold, that 
of connecting the waters of the great West 
with the sea; while New England was career¬ 
ing gayly over the ocean, following the whale 
to his most distant retreat, and feeding belli¬ 
gerent nations with her superabundance. One 
little century of seeming prosperity; three 
generations of spendthrifts; then the lawyer 
and sheriff! Nothing was invested, nothing 
saved for the future. There were no manu¬ 
factures, no commerce, no towns, no internal 
trade, no great middle class. 

As fast as that virgin richness of soil could 
be converted into tobacco and sold in the 
London docks the proceeds were spent in 
vast, ugly mansions, heavy furniture, costly 
apparel, Madeira wine, fine horses, huge 
coaches and more slaves. The planters lived 
as though virgin soil were revenue, not capi¬ 
tal. They tried to maintain in Virginia the 
lordly style of English grandees without 


any Birmingham, Staffordshire, Sheffield or 
London docks to pay for it. Their short¬ 
lived prosperity consisted of three elements,— 
virgin soil, low-priced slaves, high-priced to¬ 
bacco. 

The virgin soil was rapidly exhausted; the 
price of negroes was always on the increase; 
and the price of tobacco was always tending 
downward. Their sole chance of founding a 
staple commonwealth was to invest the pro¬ 
ceeds of their tobacco in something that would 
absorb their labor and yield them profit when 
the soil would no longer produce tobacco. 

But their laborers were ignorant slaves, the 
possession of whom destroyed their energy, 
swelled their pride, aud dulled their under¬ 
standings. Virginia’s case was hopeless from 
the day on which that Dutch ship landed the 
first twenty slaves; and, when the time of 
reckoning came the people had nothing to 
show for their long occupation of one of the 
finest estates in the world, except great hordes 
of negroes, breeding with the rapidity of rab¬ 
bits ; upon whose annual increase Virginia 
subsisted, until the most glorious and benefi¬ 
cial of all wars set the white race free and 
gave Virginia her second opportunity. 





Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

Poet and Humorist. 


ULTURED, genial, witty, unique Dr. Holmes—sunshine in 
every look and word—original in thinking and in expressing 
thought—equally at home in the realm of fancy and the realm 
of philosophy. 

No one will deny that the author of the “ Autocrat of the 
Breakfast-Table,” “ Elsie Venner,” and such poems as “ The 
Chambered Nautilus ” and “ The Deacon’s One-Hoss Shay ’’ is worthy to 
have his name written high among our literary celebrities. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes is a son of the late Abiel Holmes, D.D., and 
was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the twenty-ninth day of 
August, 1809. He received his early education at the Phillips Exeter 
Academy, and entered Harvard University in 1825. O n being graduated 
he commenced the study of the law, but relinquished it, after one year’s 
application, for the more congenial pursuit of medicine, to which he 
devoted himself with ardor and industry. For the more successful pro¬ 
secution of his studies, he visited Europe in the spring of 1833, passing 
the principal portion of liis residence abroad at Paris, where lie attended 
the hospitals, acquired an intimate knowledge of the language, and 
became personally acquainted with many of the most eminent physicians 
of France. 

He returned to Boston near the close of 1835, and in the following 
spring commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the autumn 
'of the same year he delivered a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society 
of Harvard University, which was received with extraordinary and merited 
applause. I11 1838 he was elected Professor of Anatomy and Physiology 
in the medical institution connected with Dartmouth College, but resigned 
the place on his marriage, two years afterward. 

Devoting all his attention to his profession, he soon acquired a large 
and lucrative practice, and in 1847 he succeeded Dr. Warren as Professor 
of Anatomy in the medical department of Harvard University. His prin¬ 
cipal medical writings are comprised in his “ Boylston Prize Essays,” 

148 





JOHN HAY 







DANIEL WEBSTER 






















OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


149 


“ Lectures on Popular Delusions in Medicine,” and the “ Theory and 
Practice,” by himself and Dr. Bigelow. His other compositions in prose 
consist of occasional addresses, and papers in the “ North American 
Review.” 

The earlier poems of Dr. Holmes appeared in “The Collegian.” 
They were little less distinguished for correct and melodious versification 
than his more recent and most elaborate productions. They attracted 
attention by their humor and originality, and were widely republished iu 
the periodicals. 

After resigning his professorship of Anatomy and Physiology in 
Dartmouth College, Dr. Holmes was chosen in 1847 to fill the same chair 
at Harvard University. That he was popular among his pupils can easily 
be believed. Around a very dry subject he threw the sunshine of his wit, 
fired off anecdotes and jokes, and interested the students in a subject 
which, without his genial presentation, would have been very unattractive. 

In 1857-58 he contributed to the “Atlantic Monthly” “The Auto¬ 
crat of the Breakfast-Table,’’ which was followed in 1859 by “The Pro¬ 
fessor at the Breakfast-Table,” and in 1872 by “ The Poet at the Breakfast- 
Table.” These contributions abound in humor and wit and exhibit a 
shrewd insight into human nature. His other principal productions are 
“ Elsie Venner,” issued in 1861; “ The Guardian Angel,” in 1868; 
besides numerous minor works, among which are “ Songs of Many Sea¬ 
sons,” a collection of poems published in 1874; “John L. Motley, a 
Memoir,” brought out in 1878; “ The Iron Gate and other Poems,” in 
1880, and a biography of Emerson in 1885. These are the principal 
writings of our distinguished poet and humorist. He was long a conspic¬ 
uous character in Cambridge and Boston, was never thought of in any 
other way than as a genial friend, a brilliant writer and an estimable citi¬ 
zen. He died October 7, 1894. 

Dr. Holmes is a poet of art and humor and genial sentiment, with a 
style remarkable for its purity, terseness, and point, and for an exquisite 
finish and grace. His lyrics ring and sparkle like cataracts of silver, and 
his serious pieces—as successful in their way as those mirthful frolics of 
his muse for which he is best known—arrest the attention by touches of 
the most genuine pathos and tenderness. All his poems illustrate a 
manly feeling, and have in them a current of good sense, the more charm¬ 
ing becau'se somewhat out of fashion now in works of imagination and 
fancy. 


150 


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES- 


OLD IRONSIDES. 


The frigate “ Constitution,” whose glorious record is known to all familiar with our naval 
history, was saved from destruction by the following beautiful lines of Dr. Holmes, which 
caused the people to pause, and reconsider their determination of breaking up the nation's 
favorite. They were published in the form of a handbill and distributed in the streets of 
Washington. 


A Y, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 

And many an eye has danced to see 
That banner in the sky; 

Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 

And burst the cannon’s roar: 

The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more! 

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, 
Where knelt the vanquished foe, 

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, 
And waves were white below. 


No more shall feel the victor’s tread, 
Or know the conquered knee; 

The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea! 

O, better that her shattered hulk 
Should sink beneath the wave ; 

Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
And there should be her grave ; 

Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 

And give her to the god of storms,— 
The lightning and the gale! 


EVERYONE HAS TWO DOORS. 

FROM “THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.” 


E VERY person’s feelings have a front¬ 
door and a side-door by which they 
may be entered. The front-door is on 
the street. Some keep it always open ; some 
keep it latched ; some, locked; some, bolted,— 
with a chain that will let you peep in, but 
not get in; and some nail it up, so that noth¬ 
ing can pass its threshold. This front-door 
leads into a passage which opens into an 
ante-room, and this into the interior apart¬ 
ments. This side-door opens at once into the 
sacred chambers. 

There is almost always at least one key to 
this side-door. This is carried for years hid¬ 
den in a mother’s bosom. Fathers, brothers, 
sisters, and friends, often, but by no means so 
universally, have duplicates of it. The wed¬ 
ding-ring conveys a right to one; alas, if none 
is given with it! 

If nature or accident has put one of these 
keys into the hands of a person who has the 
torturing instinct, I can only solemnly pro¬ 
nounce the words that Justice utters over its 


doomed victim,—The Lord have mercy on 
your soul! You will probably go mad within 
a reasonable time,—or, if you are a man, run 
off and die with your head on a curb-stone, in 
Melbourne or San Francisco,—or, if you are 
a woman, quarrel and break your heart, or 
turn into a pale, jointed petrifaction that 
moves about as if it were alive, or play some 
real life-tragedy or other. 

Be very careful to whom you trust one of 
these keys of the side-door. The fact of pos¬ 
sessing one renders those even who are dear 
to you very terrible at times. You can keep 
the world out from your front-door, or receive 
visitors only when you are ready for them; 
but those of your own flesh and blood, or of 
certain grades of intimacy, can come in at the 
side-door, if they will, at any hour and in any 
mood. Some of them have a scale of your 
whole nervous system, and can play all the 
gamut of your sensibilities in semitones,— 
touching the naked nerve pulps as a pianist 
strikes the keys of his instrument. I am 





OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


151 


satisfied that there are as great masters of this 
nerve playing as Vieuxtemps or Thalberg in 
their lines of performance. 

Married life is the school in which the most 
accomplished artists in this department are 
found. A delicate woman is the best instru¬ 
ment ; she has such a magnificent compass of 
sensibilities! From the deep inward moan 
which follows pressure on the great nerves of 
right, to the sharp cry as the filaments of 
taste are struck with a crashing sweep, is a 


range which no other instrument possesses. A 
few exercises on it daily at home fit a man 
wonderfully for his habitual labors, and re¬ 
fresh him immensely as he returns from 
them. 

No stranger can get a great many notes of 
torture out of a human soul; it takes one 
that knows it well,—parent, child, brother, 
sister, intimate. Be very careful to whom 
you give a side-door key; too many have 
them already. 


THE WONDERFUL 

AVE you heard of the wonderful one- 
hoss shay, 

That was built in such a logical way 
It ran a hundred years to a day, 

And then, of a sudden, it—Ah, but stay, 

I’ll tell you what happened, without delay— 
Scaring the parson into fits, 

Frightening people out of their wits— 

Have your ever heard of that, I say? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, 

Georgius Secundus was then alive— 

Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 

That was the year when Lisbon town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 

And Braddock’s army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 

It was on the terrible earthquake-day 
That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 
Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, 
There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot— 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 

In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace—lurking still, 
Find it somewhere you must and will— 

Above or below, or within or without— 

And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt, 

A chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out. 

But the deacon swore—(as deacons do, 

With an “ I dew vum ” or an “ I tell yeou,”) 
He would build one shay to beat the taown 
’N’ the keounty V all the kentry raon’; 

It should be so built that it couldn’ break 
daown; 


“ONE-HOSS SHAY.” 

“ Fur,” said the deacon, “ ’t’s mighty plain 
That the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain 
’N’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 

To make that place uz strong uz the rest.” 

So the deacon inquired of the village folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak, 

That could n’t be split, nor bent, nor broke— 
That was for spokes, and floor, and sills; 

He sent for lancewood, to make the thills; 
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest 
trees; 

The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, 
But lasts like iron for things like these; 

The hubs from logs from the “ Settler’s ellum,” 
Last of its timber—they couldn’t sell ’em— 
Never an ax had seen their chids, 

And the wedges flew from between their lips, 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 

Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, 

Found in the pit where the tanner died. 

That was the way he “ put her through.” 

“ There!” said the deacon, “ naow she’ll dew!” 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing else! 

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 

Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 

Children and grandchildren—where were they? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, 

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! 







OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


152 


Eighteen hundred—it came, and found 
The deacon's masterpiece strong aud s*>uud. 
Eighteen huudred, increased by ten — 

* Hahnsum kerridge ” they called it then. 
Eighteen hundred! and twenty came— 
Running as usual—much the same. 

Thirty and forty at last arrive ; 

And then came fifty—and fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes ou the morn of its hundreth year 

Without both feeling aud lookiug queer. 

In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth. 
So far as I know, but a tree aud truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large: 

Take it.—You're welcome.—No extra charge.) 

First of November—the earthquake day.— 
There are traces of age iu the one-hoss shay, 
A gentle flavor of mild decay— 

But nothing local, as one may say. 

There couldn’t be—for the IVaeon's art 

Had made it so like iu even part 

That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. 
And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 
And the panels just as strong as the floor, 

And the whipple-tree neither less nor more. 
And the back cross-bar as strong as the fore. 
And spring, and axle, and hub rncorr. 


Aud yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out! 

First of November, ’Fifty-five! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

| Now. small boys, get out of the way ! 

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

1 Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 

Huddup!” said the parson. —Off they weut. 

The parson was working his Sunday text— 
Hail got to “fifthly." and stopped perplexed j 
: At what the—Moses—was coming next, 
j All at once the horse stood still, 

1 01 oso by the meet’n'-house on the hill. 

—First a shiver, and then a thrill. 

Then something decidedly like a spill— 

And the parson was sitting upon a rock. 

At half-past nine by the meet’n’-house cl<*ck — 
Just the hour of the earthquake shock ! 

What do you think the parson found, 

Wlieu he got up and stared around ! 

The jH* »r old chase iu a heap or mound. 

As if it had been to the mill aud ground! 

You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, 
i How it went to pieces all at once— 

1 All at once, and nothing first— 

! Just as bubbles do when they burst.— 

Ead of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 

Logic is logic. That’s all I say. 


THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 


T HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets 
feign. 

Sails the unshadowed main— 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings. 
And coral reefs lie bare. 

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 
streaming hair. 

Tin webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 
Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell. 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to , 
dwell. 


As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 
Before thee lies revealed— 

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt 
unsealed! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew. 

He left the past year's dwelling for the 
new. 

Stole with soft step its shining archway 
through. 

Built up its idle door. 

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew 
the old no more. 







OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


153 


Thanks for the heavenly message brought by 
thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn! 

From thy dead lips a clearer note Is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings. 

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a 
voice that sings:— 


Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul. 
As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 

Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unrest¬ 
ing sea! 


I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, 
Wherever thou art hid, 

Thou testy little dogmatist, 

Thou pretty Katydid! 

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks— 

Old gentlefolks are they— 

Thou say’st an undisputed thing 
In such a solemn way. 

Thou art a female. Katydid ! 

I know it by the trill 
That quivers through thv piercing notes, 
So petulant, and shrill. 


KATYDID. 

I think there is a knot of you 
Beneath the hollow tree — 

A knot of spinster Katydids — 

Do Katydids drink tea? 

O tell me where did Katy live, 
And what did Katy do ? 

And wa3 she very fair and young, 
And yet so wicked too ? 

Did Katy love a naughty man. 
Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 
I warrant Katy did no more 
Than many a Kate has done. 


AUNT TABITHA. 


W HATEVER I do and whatever I say. 
Aunt Tabitha tells that isn’t the way, 
When she was a girl (forty summers 
ago). 

Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did 30. 

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice — 
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice : 
And besides I forget half the things I am told: 
But they all come back to me— when I am old. 

A walk in the moonlight has pleasure, I own. 
But it isn’t quite safe to be walking alone; 

So I take a lad’s arm — -just for safety, you 
know— 

But Aunt Tabitha tells me, they didn’t do so. 

How wicked we are, and how good they were 
then! 

They kept at arm’s length those detestable men ! 
What an era of virtue she lived in! — but stay— 
Were the men such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's 
day? 


If the men were so wicked — I’ll ask my papa 

How he dared to propose to my darling 
mama? 

Was he like the rest of them! Goodness! who 
knows? 

, And what shall I say, if a wretch should 
propose? 

I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin. 

What a wonder Aunt Tabitha’s aunt must have 
been! 

And her grand-aunt — it scares me — how shock¬ 
ingly sad 

That we girls of to-day are so frightfully 
bad! 

A martyr will save us, and nothing else 
can; 

Let us perish to rescue some wretched young 
man ? 

Though when to the altar a victim I go, 
i Aunt Tabitha ’ll tell me—she never did so. 





■James A. Garfield. 

Orator and Statesman. 


N Friday, March 4, 1881, Hon. James A. Garfield became Presi¬ 
dent of the United States. The inauguration ceremonies took 
place upon a scale of unusual magnificence, and were partici¬ 
pated in by numerous military and civic organizations, and by 
thousands of citizens from all parts of the country. The new 
President had been long and favorably known to his country¬ 
men. He was in his fiftieth year, and in vigorous health. A man of 
commanding presence, he was dignified and courteous in his demeanor, 
accessible to the humblest citizen, and deservedly popular with men of 
all parties. 

Born a poor boy, without influential friends, he had, by his own 
efforts, secured a thorough collegiate education, and had carefully fitted 
himself for the arduous duties he was now called upon to discharge. 

Entering the army at the outbreak of the Civil War, he had won a 
brilliant reputation as a soldier, and had been promoted to the rank of 
major-general of volunteers. Elected to Congress from Ohio in 1862, he 
had entered the House of Representatives in December, 1863, an d had 
seen almost eighteen years of constant service in that body, in which he 
had longed ranked as one of the most brilliant and trusted leaders of the 
Republican party. Early in 1880 he had been chosen a United States 
Senator from Ohio, but he had been prevented from taking his seat in the 
Senate by his election to the Presidency. 

On the morning of July 2, 1881, Mr. Garfield while at the Baltimore 
and Potomac depot in Washington, intending to make a visit to Williams’ 
College, Mass., where he graduated, was shot twice by a man named 
Charles J. Guiteau, to avenge some fancied grievance he held against the 
President. The country was thrown into a state of consternation and 
wild indignation. Mr. Garfield lingered eighty days between life and 
death, and having been removed from Washington to Long Branch, New 
Jersey, in hope of receiving benefit from the sea air, he died on the 19th 

154 




JAMES A. GARFIELD. 155 

of September. His assassin was tried, and executed at Washington, 
June 30, 1882. 

Mr. Garfield was master of a free, vigorous, commanding style of 
oratory. He always spoke as a man to men. The extract we here furnish 
from his speeches is an excellent specimen of his thought and verbal 
expression. It was greeted with enthusiasm by one of our great national 
conventions. The cast of Mr. Garfield’s mind was somewhat similar to 
that of his friend and ardent admirer, James G. Blaine. The two men 
were alike in practical thinking, always aiming at something substantial 
in distinction from the superficial, yet gifted with sufficient imagination 
and enough of the poetic temperament to render their orations and 
speeches remarkably attractive. Both were superbly endowed, intellect¬ 
ually, and were among the giants of the Republic. 

Mr. Garfield, then a man comparatively unknown, was in New York 
City when news was rec^ved of the assassination of President Lincoln in 
1865. Crowds of people were on the streets. He addressed impromptu 
a throng in Wall street, and closed with the statement so often quoted, 
“ God reigns, and the Government at Washington still lives.” 


THE SOURCE OF 

HAVE seen the sea lashed into fury and 
tossed into spray, and its grandeur moves 
the soul of the dullest man; but I remem¬ 
ber that it is not the billows, but the calm 
level of the sea, from which all heights and 
depths are measured. When the storm has 
passed and the hour of calm settles on the 
ocean, when the sunlight bathes its smooth 
surface, then the astronomer and surveyor 
take the level from which to measure all 
terrestrial heights and depths. 

Gentlemen of the convention, your present 
temper may not mark the healthful pulse of 
our people when our enthusiasm has passed. 
When the emotions of this hour have sub¬ 
sided we shall find that calm level of public 
opinion below the storm, from which the 
thoughts of a mighty people are to be meas¬ 
ured, and by which their final action will be 
determined. Not here in this brilliant circle, 


PARTY WISDOM. 

where fifteen thousand men and women are 
assembled, is the destiny of the Republican 
party to be declared. 

Not here, where I see the faces of seven 
hundred and fifty-six delegates waiting to 
cast their votes in the urn and determine the 
choice of the republic, but by four million 
Republican firesides, where the thoughtful 
voters, with wives and children about them, 
with the calm thoughts inspired by the love 
of home and country, with the history of the 
past, the hopes of the future, and a knowledge 
of the great men who have adorned and 
blessed our nation in days gone by—there 
God prepares the verdict that shall determine 
the wisdom of our work to-night. Not in 
Chicago, in the heats of June, but in the 
sober quiet that comes to them between now 
and November; in the silence of deliberate 
judgment will the great question be settled. 




William Hickling Prescott. 


Eminent Historian. 


R. PRESCOTT was born at Salem, Massachusetts, May 4, 1796, 
of parents who were remarkable for their high moral quali¬ 
ties. When fifteen years old he entered the Sophomore class 
of Harvard College. An unfortunate accident occurred during 
his Junior year which permanently injured his sight. During 
a frolic his left eye was hit squarely cfn the ball by a hard crust 
of bread. He fell prostrate, so great was the shock, but after several 
weeks was able to resume his studies. The sight of the injured eye was, 
however, gone forever. 

Even the sight of the other eye was somewhat impaired. Mr. G. H. 
Ticknor thus comments on Mr. Prescott’s resolve to pursue a literary 

career : 

“ That Mr. Prescott, under his disheartening infirmities—I refer not 
only to his imperfect sight, but to the rheumatism from which he was 
seldom wholly free—should, at the age of five and twenty or thirty, 
have aspired to the character of an historian dealing with events that 
happened in times and countries far distant from his own, and that are 
recorded chiefly in foreign languages and by authors whose conflicting 
testimony was often to be reconciled by laborious comparison, is a 
remarkable fact in literary history. It is a problem the solution of 
which was, I believe, never before undertaken; certainly never before 
accomplished. Nor do I conceive that he himself could have accom¬ 
plished it, unless to his uncommon intellectual gifts had been added 
great animal spirits, a strong, persistent will, and a moral courage 
that was to be daunted by no obstacle that he might deem it possible to 
remove by almost any amount of effort. 

“ That he was not insensible to the difficultes of his undertaking, 
we have partly seen, as we have witnessed how his hopes fluctuated while 

156 







COTTAGE OF ANN HATHAWAY- RESIDENCE OF SHAKESPEARE’S WIFE 







gYKOjy. 1 a 


‘TEiVA'YSOY ; 




scon 

















WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT. 


157 


lie was struggling through the arrangements for beginning to write his 
‘Ferdinand and Isabella,’ and in fact, during the whole period of its 
composition. But he showed the same character, the same fertility of 
resource, every day of his life, and provided, both by forecast and self- 
sacrifice, against the embarrassments of his condition as they successively 
presented themselves. 

“ The first thing to be done, and the thing always to be repeated day 
by day, was to strengthen, as much as possible, what remained of his 
sight, and at any rate, to do nothing that should tend to exhaust its 
impaired powers. In 1821, when he was still not without some hope of 
its recovery, he made this memorandum : ‘ I will make it my principal 
purpose to restore my eye to its primitive vigor, and will do nothing 
habitually that can seriously injure it.’ To this end he regulated his 
life with an exactness that I have never known equalled.” 

As a historian Mr. Prescott is pre-eminent, his work exhibiting the 
highest order of talent and holding first rank in American literature. In 
patient detail, in accurate judgment, in high moral quality, in ease and 
elegance of style, he is unsurpassed and almost unrivalled. Notwith¬ 
standing impaired eyesight, he pursued his literary labors with great zeal, 
and left behind him standard works of undoubted value. He wrote the 
history of “ Ferdinand and Isabella,” issued in 1838, the success of which 
was of the most flattering kind, and placed him in the highest rank of 
contemporary historians. This was followed by the “ Conquest of Mex¬ 
ico,” given to the public in 1843. Then appeared the “Conquest of 
Peru,” published in 1847. All of these works possess an unusual degree 
of merit. 

Mr. Prescott travelled much in Europe, obtaining materials for some 
of his works from original sources. He was pre-eminently a student 
and scholar, and scarcely less an author. 

Mr. Prescott perhaps excels most in description and narration, but 
his histories combine in a high degree almost every merit that can belong 
to such works. They are pervaded by a truly and profoundly philosoph¬ 
ical spirit, the more deserving of recognition because it is natural and 
unobtrusive, and are distinguished above all others for their uniform 
candor, a quality which might reasonably be demanded of an American 
writing of early European policy and adventure. In private life, no man 
was more admired and beloved. He was not more remarkable for his 
abilities and acquirements than for his amiability, simplicity, and high- 


158 


WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT. 


bred courtesy. He was one of those men who are a blessing as well as 
an honor to the community in which they live. His death occurred in 
1859, k ut princely works will long survive him. 


RETURN OF COLUMBUS. 

FROM “FERDINAND AND ISABELLA.” 


T HE admiral was too desirous of presenting 
himself before the sovereigns, to protract 
his stay long at Palos. He took with 
him on his journey specimens of the multifari¬ 
ous products of the newly-discovered regions. 
He was accompanied by several of the native 
islanders, arrayed in their simple barbaric cos¬ 
tume, and decorated, as he passed through the 
principal cities, with collars, bracelets, and 
other ornaments of gold, rudely fashioned. 
He exhibited also considerable quantities of 
the same metal in dust, or in crude masses, 
numerous vegetable exotics, possessed of aro¬ 
matic or medicinal virtue, and several kinds 
of quadrupeds unknown in Europe, and birds 
whose variety of gaudy plumage gave a bril¬ 
liant effect to the pageant. The admiral’s 
progress through the country was everywhere 
impeded by the multitudes thronging forth to 
gaze at the extraordinary spectacle, and more 
extraordinary man, who, in the emphatic lan¬ 
guage of that time, which has now lost its 
force from its familiarity, first revealed the 
existence of a “ New World.” 

As he passed through the busy, populous 
city of Seville, every window, balcony, and 
housetop, which could afford a glimpse of him, 
is described to have been crowded with specta¬ 


tors. It was the middle of April before 
Columbus reached Barcelona. The nobility 
and cavaliers in attendance on the court, 
together with the authorities of the city, came 
to the gates to receive him, and escort him to 
the royal presence. Ferdinand and Isabella 
were seated, with their son, Prince John, 
under a superb canopy of state, awaiting his 
arrival. On his approach, they rose from 
their seats, and, extending their hands to him 
to salute, caused him to be seated before them. 
These were unprecedented marks of conde¬ 
scension, to a person of Columbus’s rank, in 
the haughty and ceremonious court of Castile. 
It was, indeed, the proudest moment in the life 
of Columbus. He had fully established the 
truth of his long-contested theory, in the face 
of argument, sophistry, sneer, skepticism, and 
contempt. He had achieved this, not by 
chance, but by calculation, supported through 
the most adverse circumstances by consum¬ 
mate conduct. 

The honors paid him, which had hitherto 
been reserved only for rank, or fortune, or 
military success, purchased by the blood and 
tears of thousands, were, in his case, a homage 
to intellectual power successfully exerted in 
behalf of the noblest interests of humanity. 


FIRST SIGHT OF THE VALLEY OF MEXICO BY THE SPANIARDS. 

FROM “THE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO.” 


T HE troops, refreshed by a night’s rest, 
succeeded, early on the following day, 
in gaining the crest of the sierra of 
Ahualco, which stretches like a curtain be¬ 
tween the two great mountains on the north 
and south. Their progress was now compara¬ 
tively easy, and they marched forward with a 


buoyant step as they felt they were treading 
the soil of Montezuma. 

They had not advanced far, when, turning 
an angle of the sierra, they suddenly came on 
a view which more than compensated the toils 
of the preceding day. It was that of the Val¬ 
ley of Mexico, which, with its picturesque 






WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT. 


159 


assemblage of water, woodland, and cultivated 
plains, its shining cities and shadowy hills, was 
spread out like some gay and gorgeous pano¬ 
rama before them. Stretching far away at 
their feet were seen noble forests of oak, syca¬ 
more, and cedar, and beyond, yellow fields of 
maize and the towering maguey, intermingled 
with orchards and blooming gardens; for flow¬ 
ers, in such demand for their religious festi¬ 
vals, were even more abundant in this popu¬ 
lous valley than in other parts of Anahuac. 
In the centre of the great basin were beheld 
the lakes, occupying then a much larger por¬ 
tion of its surface than at present; their bor¬ 
ders thickly studded with towns and hamlets, 
and, in the midst—like some Indian empress, 
with her coronal of pearls—the fair city of 
Mexico, with her white towers and pyramidal 
temple, reposing, as it were, on the bosom of 
the waters—the far-famed “ Venice of the 
Aztecs.” 

High over all rose the royal hill of Chapul- 
tepec, the residence of the Mexican monarchs, 
crowned with the same grove of gigantic 
cypresses, which at this day fling their broad 


shadows over the land. In the distance 
beyond the blue waters of the lake, and nearly 
screened by intervening foliage, was seen a 
shining speck, the rival capital of Tezcuco, 
and, still further on, the dark belt of por¬ 
phyry, girdling the valley around like a rich 
setting which nature had devised for the fair¬ 
est of her jewels. 

Such was the beautiful vision which broke 
on the eyes of the conquerors. And even 
now, when so sad a change has come over the 
scene; when the stately forests have been laid 
low, and the soil, unsheltered from the fierce 
radiance of a tropical sun, is in many places 
abandoned to sterility ; when the waters have 
retired, leaving a broad and ghastly margin 
white with the incrustation of salts, while the 
cities and hamlets on their borders have 
mouldered into ruins;—even now that desola¬ 
tion broods over the landscape, so indestructi¬ 
ble are the lines of beauty which nature has 
traced on its features, that no traveler, how¬ 
ever cold, can gaze on them without secret 
wonder and admiration. 


THE PROFESSION OF LITERATURE. 

FROM A PAPER ON SCOTT. 


I T is not very easy to see on what this low 
estimate of literature rested. As a profes¬ 
sion, it has too little in common with more 
active ones to afford much ground for running 
a parallel. The soldier has to do with exter¬ 
nals ; and his contests and triumphs are over 
matter in its various forms, whether of man or 
material nature. The poet deals with the 
bodiless forms of air, of fancy lighter than air. 
His business is contemplative, the other’s is 
active, and depends for its success on strong 
moral energy and presence of mind. He 
must, indeed, have genius of the highest order 
to effect his own combinations, anticipate the 
movements of his enemy, and dart with eagle 
eye on his vulnerable point. But who shall 
say that this practical genius, if we may so term 
it, is to rank higher in the scale than the cre¬ 
ative power of the poet, the spark from the 
mind of divinity itself? 


The orator might seem to afford better 
ground for comparison, since, though his thea¬ 
tre of action is abroad, he may be said to work 
with much the same tools as the writer. Yet 
how much of his success depends ou qualities 
other than intellectual! How much depends 
on the look, the gesture, the magical tones of 
voice, modulated to the passions he has stirred; 
and how much on the contagious sympathies 
of the audience itself which drown every thing 
like criticism in the overwhelming tide of emo¬ 
tion ! If any one would know how much, let 
him, after patiently standing 

“ till his feet throb, 

And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,” 

read the same speech in the columns of a 
morning newspaper, or in the well-concocted 
report of the orator himself. 





John Godfrey Saxe. 

H umorous Poet. 


OHN GODFREY SAXE, of Highgate, Franklin county, Ver¬ 
mont, was born in that town on the second day of June, 1816. 
His youth was passed in rural occupations, until he was seven¬ 
teen years of age, when he determined to study one of the 
liberal professions, and with this view entered the grammar 
school at St. Albans, and after the usual preliminary course, 
the college at Middlebury, where he graduated bachelor of arts in the 
summer of 1839. He subsequently read law, at Lockport in New York 
and at St. Albans, and was admitted to the bar at the latter place, in 
September, 1843. 

“ I remember,” says a friend, “ that when Mr. Saxe was in college 
he was well known for his manly character, good sense, genial humor, 
and, for an undergraduate, large acquaintance with literature. Besides 
writing with such delightful point and facility, he is one of the best of 
conversationists, and wastes more wit in a day than would set up a Yan¬ 
kee ‘ Punch ’ or a score of ‘ Yankee Doodles.’ He is a good general 
scholar, well read in the best English authors, and besides his comical 
compositions, has produced many pieces of grace and tenderness that 
evince a genuine poetical feeling and ability.” 

Mr. Saxe excels most in fun, burlesque, and satire, fields upon the 
confines of the domain of poetry, in which we have many of the finest 
specimens of lyrical expression, and which have furnished, from the times 
of Juvenal, a fair proportion of the noblest illustrations of creative energy. 
His verse is nervous, and generally highly finished; and in almost all 
cases it is admirably calculated for the production of the desired effects. 

The longest of his productions is “ Progress, a Satire,” which has 
passed through several editions, and been largely quoted for its felicitous 
characterization of popular foibles. His “ New Rape of the Lock,” writ¬ 
ten in 1847, and “ Proud Miss MacBride,” written in 1848, are in the vein 
of Hood, but are full of verbal felicities and humor. 

160 




JOHN GODFREY SAXE- 


161 


One of the happiest exhibitions of his skill in language is in the 
piece first printed in the Knickerbocker Magazine, commencing— 

Singing through the forests, 

Rattling over ridges, 

Shooting under arches, 

Rumbling over bridges; 

Whizzing through the mountains, 

Buzzing o’er the vale— 

Bless me ! this is pleasant, 

Riding on a rail! 

The whole composition is an echo and reflection of the crowded rail¬ 
road car. 

Mr. Saxe was elected State’s Attorney in 1851. A collection of his 
poems appeared in 1849. They rank among the most successful pro- 
ductions of their kind, and have obtained extensive popularity. A new 
edition of his collective poems was published in 1864. He produced in 
1866 “ The Masquerade and other Poems,” and “ Leisure Day Rhymes ’’ 
in 1875. He died March 31, 1887. 


THE PROUD MISS MacBRIDE. 


0 , TERRIBLY proud was Miss MacBride, 
The very personification of pride, 

As she minced along in fashion’s tide, 
Adown Broadway—on the proper side— 
When the golden sun was setting; 

There was pride in the head she carried so high, 
Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, 

And a world of pride in the very sigh 
That her stately bosom was fretting. 

0, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, 

Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride, 
And proud of fifty matters beside— 

That wouldn’t have borne dissection : 
Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk, 
Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, 
Proud of “ knowing cheese from chalk,” 

On a very slight inspection ! 

Old John MacBride, one fatal day, 

Became the unresisting prey 
Of Fortune’s undertakers; 

11 


And staking all on a single die, 

His foundered bark went high and dry 
Among the brokers and breakers. 

At his trade again, in the very shop 
Where, years before, he let it drop, 

He follows his ancient calling— 
Cheerily, too, in poverty’s spite, 

And sleeping quite as sound at night 
As when, at fortune’s giddy height, 

He used to wake with a dizzy fright 
From a dismal dream of falling. 

But alas for the haughty Miss MacBride, 
’Twas such a shock to her precious pride! 

She couldn’t recover, although she tried 
Her jaded spirits to rally : 

’Twas a dreadful change in human affairs, 
From a Place “ up town,” to a nook ‘ up 
stairs,” 

From an avenue down to an alley!— 




162 


JOHN GODFREY SAXE- 


’Twas little condolence she had, God wat— 
From “her troops of friends,” who hadn’t forgot 
The airs she used to borrow; 

They had civil phases enough, but yet 
’Twas plain to see that their “deepest regret” 
Was a different thing from sorrow! 

And one of those chaps who make a pun, 

As if it were quite legitimate fun 
To be blazing away at every one 
With a regular double-loaded gun— 
Remarked that moral transgression 
Always brings retributive stings 
To candle-makers as well as kings : 

For making light of cereous things ” 

Was a very wick-ed profession ! 

And vulgar people—the saucy churls— 
Inquired about “ the price of pearls,” 

And mocked at her situation: 

“ She wasn’t ruined—they ventured to hope— 
Because she was poor, she needn’t mope; 

Few people were better off for soap, 

And that was a consolation! ” 


And to make her cup of woe run ov* 

Her elegant, ardent plighted lover 
Was the very first to forsake her, 

‘ He quite regretted the step ’twas truo, . 

The lady had pride i nough ‘ for two,’ 

But that alone would never do 

To quiet the butcher and baker! ’ 

And now the unhappy Miss MacBride • 

The merest ghost of her early pride— 
Bewails her lonely position ; 

Cramped in the very narrowest niche, 

Above the poor, and below the rich—. 

Was ever a worse condition ? 

MORAL. 

Because you flourish in worldly affairs, 

Don’t be haughty, and put on airs, 

With insolent pride of station ! 

Don’t be proud and turn up your nose 
At poorer people in plainer clo’es, 

But learn, for the sake of your mind’s repose, 
That wealth’s a bubble that comes—and goes I 
And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, 
Is subject to irritation! 


ECHO. 


I ASKED of Echo, ’t other day, 

(Whose words are few and often funny), 
What to a novice she could say 
Of courtship, love, and matrimony ? 

Quoth Echo, plainly—“ Matter-o’-money! ” 

Whom should I marry ?—should it be 
A dashing damsel, gay and pert, 

A pattern of inconstancy: . 

Or selfish, mercenary flirt ? 

Quoth Echo, sharply—“Nary flirt!” 

What if, aweary of the strife 

That long has lured the dear deceiver, 

She promise to amend her life, 

And sin no more; can I believe her ? 
Quoth Echo, very promptly — “Leave 
her!” 

But if some maiden with a heart 
On me should venture to bestow it, 


Pray, should I act the wiser part 
To take the treasure, or forego it ? 

Quoth Echo with decision—“ Go it! ” 

But what if, seemingly afraid 

To bind her fate in Hymen’s fetter, 

She vow she means to die a maid, 

In answer to my loving letter ? 

Quoth Echo, rather coolly—“ Let her! ” 

What if, in spite of her disdain, 

I find my heart intwined about 
With Cupid’s dear delicious chain 
So closely that I can’t get out? 

Quoth Echo, laughingly—“ Get out! ” 

But if some maid with beauty blest, 

As pure and fair as Heaven can make h er 
Will share my labor and my rest 

Till envious Death shall overtake her? 
Quoth Echo ( sotto voce )—“Take her!” 





James Gillespie Blaine. 

Statesman and Leader. 


AMES G. BLAINE was born of Scotcb-Irisb parentage at West 
Brownsville, Pa., January 31, 1830. As a boy at school he 
excelled in literature and mathematics, and at the age of 
thirteen entered Washington College in his native county ? 
graduating in 1847. Subsequently he became a teacher in the 
military institute at Blue Lick Springs, Ky., where he married 
Miss Harriet Stanhope, a teacher in a neighboring seminary. 

Soon after his marriage he removed to Pennsylvania, and after study¬ 
ing law for a short time became a teacher in the Institution for the Blind 
at Philadelphia. In 1854 he removed to Augusta, Me., entering the 
journalistic ranks, first as editor of the “ Kennebec Journal,” and later 
as editor of the “ Portland Advertiser.” 

In 1862 he was elected to the House of Representatives, and for 
twenty years served in one or the other of the two Houses of Congress. 
From 1869 to 1875 Mr. Blaine was speaker of the House of Representa¬ 
tives, and his record in this capacity is generally conceded to have been 
a brilliant one. 

In 1876 Mr. Blaine was elected to the United States Senate, and at 
once became a most prominent and efficient member of that body. In 
the Republican national convention of that year he was a prominent 
candidate for nomination to the presidency of the United States, and 
lacked only 28 votes out of a total of 754 of receiving the nomination. 
At the Republican national convention in 1880 his friends again pre¬ 
sented his name for nomination, but without success. 

On the election of Mr. Garfield, Mr. Blaine accepted the appoint¬ 
ment of Secretary of State, filling the office with rare ability and success, 
until the death of the President, when he retired from active public work, 
and began to write his famous historical work, entitled, “ Twenty Years 
of Congress.” 

In 1884 Mr. Blaine received the Republican nomination for Presi¬ 
dent, but after a vigorous contest, failing to secure the electoral vote of 

163 





164 


JAMES GILLESPIE BLAINE. 


the State of New York by the narrow margin of 1,047 votes out of a total 
of over 1,200,000, he was defeated in the general election. He spent the 
ensuing four years at work on his book and in foreign travel. 

At the time of the nominating convention in 1888, Mr. Blaine was 
in Europe, and by formal letter declined to permit his friends to present 
his name as a candidate for the presidency. He returned, however, in 
time to aid efficiently in the canvass for Mr. Harrison, and on the elec¬ 
tion of the latter again accepted the appointment as Secretary of State. 
In June, 1892, Mr. Blaine resigned his office to become a candidate for the 
Republican Presidential nomination, but failed to receive it. He died 
in 1893. 

As a writer and orator Mr. Blaine held high rank. His intellectual 
power was undisputed, and by his ready speech and magnetic presence 
he swayed his hearers as few orators ever have done. He is the author 
of “Twenty Years of Congress,” 2 vols., issued in 1884. 


FROM AN ORATION ON JAMES A. GARFIELD. 

The magnificent eulogy from which an extract is here presented was delivered before both 
Houses of Congress and an imposing gathering of distinguished men and women, constitu¬ 
ting one of the most remarkable scenes ever witnessed at our National Capitol. 


S URELY if happiness can ever come from 
the honors or triumphs of this world, on 
that quiet July morning, James A. Gar¬ 
field may well have been a happy man. No 
foreboding of evil haunted him ; no slightest 
premonition of danger clouded his sky. His 
terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One 
moment he stood erect, strong, confident in 
the years stretching peacefully out before him ; 
the next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, 
doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence 
and the grave. 

Great in life, he was surpassing great in 
death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of 
wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand 
of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of 
this world’s interest—from its hopes, its aspira¬ 
tions, its victories, into the visible presence of 
death, and he did not quail. Not alone for 
the one short moment in which, stunned and 
dazed, he could give up life hardly aware of 
its relinquishment, but through days of deadly 


languor, through weeks of agony that was 
not less agony because silently borne, with 
clear sight and calm courage he looked into 
his open grave. What blight and ruin met 
his anguished eyes whose lips may tell—what 
brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high 
ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, 
manhood’s friendships, what bitter rending of 
sweet household ties! 

Behind him a proud, expectant nation; a 
great host of sustaining friends; a cherished 
and happy mother, wearing the full, rich, 
honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of 
his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the 
little boys, not yet emerged from childhood’s 
day of frolic ; the fair young daughter; the 
sturdy sons just springing into closest com¬ 
panionship, claiming everyday and every day 
rewarding a father’s love and care; and in 
his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet 
all demands. Before him desolation and 
great darkness—and his soul was not shaken. 




JAMBS GILLESPIE BLAINE- 


165 


His countrymen were thrilled with instant, 
profound and universal sympathy. Master¬ 
ful in his mortal weakness, he became the 
centre of a nation’s love, enshrined in the 
prayers of a world. 

But all the love and all the sympathy could 
not share with him his suffering. He trod 
the winepress alone. With unfaltering front 
he faced death. With unfailing tenderness 
he took leave of life. Above the demoniac 
hiss of the assassin’s bullet he heard the voice 
of God. With simple resignation he bowed 
to the divine decree. 

As the end drew near his early craving for 
the sea returned. The stately mansion of 
power had been to him the wearisome hospital 
of pain, and he begged to be taken from its 
prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, 
from its homelessness and its hopelessness. 
Gently, silently, the love of a great people 


bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for heal¬ 
ing of the sea to live or to die, as God should 
will, within sight of its heaving billows, within 
sound of its manifold voices. 

With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to 
the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon 
the ocean’s changing wonders; on its far sails, 
whitening the morning light; on its restless 
waves, rolling shoreward to break and die 
beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds 
of evening, arching low to the horizon; on 
the serene and shining pathway of the stars. 
Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic 
meaning which only the rapt and parting soul 
may know. Let us believe that in the silence 
of the receding world he heard the great 
waves bi’eaking on a farther shore, and felt 
already upon his wasted brow the breath of 
the eternal morning. 


STRENGTH OF THE REPUBLIC. 

FROM “TWENTY YEARS OF CONGRESS.” 


I T needs no argument to show that the cen¬ 
tral element of the stability of this system 
of American republics was the strength 
of the Federal Union, its growth into a har¬ 
monious nationality, and its ability to prevent 
anywhere on the two continents the armed 
intervention of foreign Powers for the purpose 
of political domination. This strength was 
known and this resolution publicly declared, 
and it is safe to affirm that before 1861 or after 
1865 not one nor all of the European Powers 
would have willingly challenged this policy. 

But the moment the strength of the Union 
seemed weakened, the moment that the lead¬ 
ing Republic of this system found itself ham¬ 
pered and embarrassed by internal dissen¬ 
sions, all Europe—that Europe which upon 
the threatening of a Belgian fortress, or the 
invasion of a Swiss canton, or the loss of the 
key to a church in Jerusalem, would have 
written protocols, summoned conferences, and 
mustered armies—quietly acquiesced in as 
wanton, wicked, and foolish an aggression as 
ever Imperial folly devised. 

The same monarch who appealed with con¬ 


fidence to Heaven when he declared war to 
prevent a Hohenzollern from ascending the 
throne of Spain, appealed to the same Heaven 
with equal confidence and equal success when 
he declared war to force a Hapsburg upon 
the throne of Mexico. 

The success of the establishment of a For¬ 
eign Empire in Mexico would have been fatal 
to all that the United States cherished, to all 
that it hoped peacefully to achieve. The 
scheme of invasion rested on the assumption 
of the dissolution of the Union and its divis¬ 
ion into two hostile governments; but aside 
from that possibility, it threatened the United 
States upon the most vital questions. 

It was at war with all our institutions 
and our habits of political life, for it would 
have introduced into a great country on this 
continent, capable of unlimited development, 
that curious and mishcievous form of govern¬ 
ment, that perplexing mixture of absolutism 
and democracy—imperial power supported by 
universal suffrage—which seems certain to 
produce aggression abroad and corruption at 
home. 






John Hay. 

Author and Secretary of State. 


HAT a man who began his public life by writing one or two 
somewhat humorous poems, which served to bring him into 
notice, should enter the field of politics and advance step by 
step until he held the first position in the Cabinets of two 
Presidents, evinces talent of no ordinary kind. Between a 
humorous poet and a statesman there does not seem to be any 
affinity, or any relation except such as would appear grotesque. Yet 
Mr. Hay achieved a fair success in his early life as an author, and after¬ 
ward made an enviable record as Secretary of State at Washington. 

Mr. Hay was born at Salem, Ind., October 8, 1838, and was sent to 
Providence, R. I., to be educated and graduated at Brown’s University. 
He studied law and began practice at Springfield, Ill., where he became 
acquainted with Abraham Lincoln, and was afterward made Mr. Lincoln’s 
private secretary. He also acted as Lincoln’s adjutant, was major and 
assistant adjutant-general under Generals Hunter and Gilmore and was 
breveted colonel. 

By this time he seemed to be marked for official station and was 
appointed United States Secretary of Legation at Paris. Having served 
in this capacity two years, he was made Secretary of Legation at Madrid. 
He returned to this country in 1870 and became prominently connected 
with the “ New York Tribune.” For a considerable time this journal was 
under Mr. Hay’s active management. Subsequently he made Cleveland, 
Ohio, his place of residence, and later was first assistant Secretary of 
State under President Hayes. 

Soon after Mr. McKinley was elected President he appointed Mr. 
Hay our ambassador to Great Britain, where he acquitted himself with 
credit to himself and his country. When William R. Day resigned as Sec¬ 
retary of State from Mr. McKinley’s cabinet, Mr. Hay was appointed to 
that position and his subsequent career showed the wisdom of the choice. 

In 1871 Mr. Hay issued a volume of poems called “ Pike County 
Ballads,” in which two poems that were already famous are included and 




JOHN HAY. 


16T 


which we take pleasure in giving below. He also published “ Castilian 
Days,” and, with J. G. Nicolay, “ Abraham Lincoln: a History,” which 
was first issued in the “ Century Magazine,” 1886-90. 


LITTLE BREECHES. 


1 DON’T go much on religion, 

I never ain’t had no show; 

But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir, 
On the handful o’ things I know. 

I don’t pan out on the prophets 
And free-will, and that sort of thing— 
But I b’lieve in God and the angels, 
Ever sence one night last spring. 

I come into town with some turnips, 

And my little Gabe come along— 

No four-year-old in the county 
Could beat him for pretty and strong, 
Peart and chipper and sassy, 

Always ready to swear and fight —- 
And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker 
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. 

The snow come down like a blanket 
As I passed by Taggart’s store; 

I went in for a jug of molasses 
And left the team at the door. 

They scared at something and started— 
I heard one little squall, 

And hell-to-split Over the prairie 
Went team, Little Breeches and all. 

Hell-to-split over the prairie; 

I was almost froze with skeer ; 

But we rousted up some torches, 

And searched for ’em far and near. 


At last we struck hosses and wagon, 
Snowed under a soft white mound, 

Upsot—dead beat—but of little Gabe 
No hide nor hair was found. 

And here all hope soured on me, 

Of my fellow-critters’ aid, 

I jest flopped down on my marrowbones, 
Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed. 

By this, the torches was played out, 

And me and Isrul Parr 
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold 
That he said was somewhar thar. 

We found it at last, and a little shed 
Where they shut up the lambs at night, 
We looked in and seen them huddled thar, 
So warm and sleepy and white ; 

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, 
As peart as ever you see, 

“ I want a chaw of terbacker, 

An’ that’s what’s the matter of me.” 

How did he git thar ? Angels. 

He could never have walked in that storm; 
They jest scooped down and toted him 
To whar it was safe and warm. 

And I think that saving a little child, 

An’ fotching him to his own, 

Is a derned sight better business 
Than loafing around the Throne. 


JIM BLUDSO. 


W ALL, no! I can’t tell where he lives, 
Because he don’t live, you see; 
Leastways, he’s got out of the habit 
Of livin’ like you and me. 

Whar have you been for the last three years, 
That you haven’t heard folks tell 
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, 
The night of the “ Prairie Belle ? ” 


He warn’t no saint—them engineers 
Is all pretty much alike— 

One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, 

And another one here, in Pike. 

A careless man in his talk was Jim, 
And an awkward man in a row— 
But he never pinked, and he never lied, 
I reckon he never know’d how. 






168 


JOHN HAY. 


And this was all the religion he had— 

To treat his engine well; 

Never be passed on the river; 

To mind the pilot’s bell; 

And if ever the “ Prairie Belle ” took fire, 

A thousand times he swore 
He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank 
Till the last soul got ashore. 

All boats has their day on the MississipV 
And her day came at last— 

The Movastar was a better boat, 

But the Belle, she wouldn’t be passed, 

And so came tarin’ along that night, 

The oldest craft on the line, 

With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 

And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine. 

The fire bust out as she dared the bar, 

And burnt a hole in the night, 

And quick as a flash she turned, and made 
For that willer-bank on the right. 


There was runnin’ and cursin’, but Jim yelled 
Over all the infernal roar, [out 

“ I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank 
Till the last galoot’s ashore.” 

Thro’ the hot, black breath of the burnin’ boat 
Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, 

And they all had trust in his cussedness, 

And know’d he would keep his word. 

And sure’s you’re born, they all got off* 

Afore the smoke stacks fell, 

And Bludso’s ghost went up alone 
In the smoke of the “ Prairie Belle.” 

He warn’t no saint—but at judgment 
I’d run my chance with Jim 
’Longside of some pious gentlemen 
That wouldn’t shook hands with him. 

He’d seen his duty a dead sure thing, 

And went for it thar and then; 

And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard 
On a man that died for men. 


THE RIVER. 


O GRANDLY flowing River! 

O silver-gliding River! 

Thy springing willows shiver 
In the sunset as of old ; 

They shiver in the silence 
Of the willow-whitened islands, 

While the sun-bars and the sand-bars 
Fill air and wave with gold. 

O gray, oblivious River! 

O sunset-kindled River! 

Do you remember ever 
The eyes and skies so blue 


On a summer day that shone here, 
When we were all alone here, 

And the blue eyes were too wise 
To speak the love they knew? 

O stern, impassive River! 

O still unanswering River! 

The shivering willows quiver 

As the night-winds moan and rave. 
From the past a voice is calling, 
From heaven a star is falling, 

And dew swells in the bluebells 
Above the hillside grave. 







Elizabeth Ackers Allen. 

Author of “ Rock Me to Sleep, Mother.” 

HERB are many authors who are more widely known for some 
single production, perhaps brief, than they are for any elaborate 
and voluminous works. The only poem by wbicb Thomas 
Grey is celebrated is his “ Elegy in a Country Churchyard,” 
yet it will carry bis name down through time. 

Mrs. Allen has not written volumes; she is not to be meas¬ 
ured by quantity so much as by quality. She was born at Strong, 
Maine, October 9, 1832. She became a contributor to various magazines 
and under the pseudonym of “ Florence Percy ” became widely known as 
an author. A volume of poems published in 1867 was favorably received. 
In i860 she became the wife of Paul Ackers, the sculptor, but survived 
her husband, and some time after his death was married to Mr. E- M. 
Allen of New York. 

Her painstaking work has been widely appreciated, and while her 
productions are not so abundant as those of many others, she has gained 
an enviable distinction as a graceful writer, with fine poetic taste. Her 
beautiful poem entitled, “ Rock me to Sleep, Mother,” has become a 
household treasure. It exalts and ennobles motherhood, and its tender 
pathos is universally admitted. 



ROCK ME 

ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, 
in your flight, 

Make me a child again just for to-night! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 

Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ;— 
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep! 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years • 
I am so weary of toil and of tears,— 


TO SLEEP. 

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,— 
Take them, and give me my childhood again I 
I have grown weary of dust and decay,— 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ;— 

Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossom’d and faded, our faces between : 

169 






170 


ELIZABETH ACKERS ALLEN. 


Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain 
Long I to-night for your presence again, 
Come from the silence so long and so deep;— 
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep! 

Over my heart in the days that are flown, 

No love like mother-love ever has shone; 

No other worship abides and endures,— 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours: 
None like a mother can cbarm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep; 
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with 
gold 

Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 


, Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ;— 
Rock me to sleep mother,—rock me to sleep! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been 
long 

Since I last listen’d your lullaby song: 

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream. 
Clasp’d to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping my 
face, 

Never hereafter to wake or to weep ;— 

Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep 


LEFT BEHIND. 


Y OU did not see the the bitter trace 
Of anguish sweep across my face ; 

You did not hear my proud heart beat, 
Heavy and slow, beneath your feet; 

You thought of triumphs still un won, 

Of glorious deeds as yet undone; 

And I, the while you talked to me, 

I watched the gulls float lonesomely, 

Till lost amid the hungry blue, 

And loved you better than you knew. 

You walk the sunny side of fate; 

The wise world smiles, and calls you great; 
The golden fruitage of success 
Drops at your feet in plenteousness ; 

And you have blessings manifold : 

Renown and power and friends and gold, 
They build a wall between us twain, 

Which may not be thrown down again, 

Alas! for I, the long years through, 

Have loved you better than you knew. 


Your life’s proud aim, your art’s high truth, 
Have kept the promise of your youth ; 

And while you won the crown, which now 
Breaks into bloom upon your brow, 

My soul cried strongly out to you 
Across the ocean’s yearning blue, 

While, unremembered and afar, 

I watched you, as I watch a star 
Through darkness struggling into view, 

And loved you better than you knew. 

I used to dream in all these years 
Of patient faith and silent tears, 

That Love’s strong hand would put aside 
The barriers of place and pride, 

Would reach the pathless darkness through, 
And draw me softly up to you ; 

But that is past. If you should stray 
Beside my grave, some future day, 

Perchance the violets o’er my dust 
Will half betray their buried trust, 

And say, their blue eyes full of dew, 

“ She loved you better than you knew.” 





Nancy Priest Wakefield. 

Author of “ Over the River.” 


EW poems have ever touched the heart as “ Over the River 
has, and few have ever been so phenomenally popular. It 
gave the author instant fame and was quoted far and near in 
periodicals, all of which indicates that it was considered a gem. 
The author was born at Hinsdale, New Hampshire, in 1837. 
“ Over the River ” was published in the “ Springfield Repub¬ 
lican ” in August, 1857, and appears to be the only production, with one 
exception, by which the writer is known, although confessedly possessed 
of the highest order of talent. Her maiden name was Priest. She died 
in 1870. 



OVER THE RIVER. 


O VER the river they beckon to me, 

Loved ones who have crossed to the 
farther side, 

The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
There’s one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven’s own blue; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there, 
The gates of the city we could not see: 

Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river the boatman pale 
Carried another, the household pet; 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, 
Darling Minnie! I see her yet. 

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
We felt it glide from the silver sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark ; 
We know she is safe on the farther side, 
Where all the ransomed and angels be: 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood’s idol is waiting for me. 


For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail: 

And lo ! they have passed from our yearning 
hearts, 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day; 
We only know that their barks no more 
May sail with us o’er life’s stormy sea; 

Yet, somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset’s gold 
Is flushing river and hill and shore, 

I shall one day stand by the water cold, 

And list for the sound of the boatman’s oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail. 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 
To the better shore of the spirit land. 

I shall know the loved who have gone before, 
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The angel of death shall carry me. 

171 





Henry Ward Beecher. 

Pulpit Orator and Author. 


O public man has achieved greater distinction than this gifted 
writer and pulpit orator, of whom it has been said “ he was a 
grand outgrowth of American institutions.” He was a son of 
Dr. Lyman Beecher, and was born in Litchfield, Conn., on the 
4th of June, 1813. He appears to have given in childhood but 
little promise of distinction. 

But even while a boy he proved that he inherited something of the 
controversial ability of his father. A forward schoolboy among the elder 
scholars had got hold of Paine’s “ Age of Reason,” and was flourishing 
largely among the boys with objections to the Bible. Henry privately 
looked up Watson’s “Apology,” studied up the subject, and challenged 
a debate with the big boy, in which he came off victorious by the accla¬ 
mation of his schoolfellows. This occurred when he was about eleven 
years old. 

He manifested at this period little inclination for severe study, but 
had conceived a passionate desire to go to sea. His father adroitly used 
this desire to induce him to commence a course of mathematics with a 
view to qualify himself to become a naval officer. He applied himself 
energetically to his new studies, “ with his face to the navy, and Nelson 
as his beau ideal.” But not long afterwards there occurred in that sec¬ 
tion of the country a religious “ revival,” and young Beecher, with many 
others, was powerfully impressed. The result was that the naval scheme 
was abandoned, and his thoughts were directed to the pulpit as his 
natural and proper sphere. 

After going through the preparatory studies, he entered Amherst 
College, where he graduated in 1834; and soon after he commenced the 
study of theology at Lane Seminary, under the direction of his father. 
He began his ministerial course at Lawrenceburg, Indiana, but removed 
soon after to Indianapolis. In 1847 he became pastor of Plymouth 

Church (Congregational) in Brooklyn, where he gathered around him an 

172 







HENRY WARD BEECHER. 


173 


immense congregation. He was also one of the most popular writers and 
most successful lecturers in America His success as a public speaker 
was due not so much to what is popularly termed eloquence as to a flow 
of racy and original thought, which, though often enlivened with flashes 
of quaint humor, was not without an undercurrent of deep moral and 
spiritual earnestness. 

As far back as 1850 Mr. Beecher published a volume of “ Lectures 
to Young Men.” He was one of the founders of “ The Independent,” 
and for twenty years contributed to that journal over the signature of a 
star. He was a powerful leader in the anti-slavery agitation and in the 
cause of temperance. 

Of his published works the principal are two series of “ Star Papers,” 
issued in 1855 and 1858 ; “ Life Thoughts,” in 1858 ; “ Norwood,” a novel, 
in 1868; and “ Yale Lectures on Preaching,” in 3 volumes. He left an 
unfinished “ Life of Christ ” at his death, which occurred from apoplexy 
March 8, 1887. 


COMING AND GOING. 


O NCE came to our fields a pair of birds 
that had never built a nest nor seen a 
winter. O, how beautiful was every¬ 
thing! The fields were full of flowers, and 
the grass was growing tall, and the bees were 
humming everywhere. Then one of the birds 
fell to singing ; and the other bird said, “ Who 
told you to sing ? ” And he answered, “ The 
flowers told me, and the bees told me, and the 
winds and leaves told me, and the blue sky 
told me, and you told me to sing.” Then his 
mate answered, “When did I tell you to 
sing ? ” And he said, “ Every time you 
brought in tender grass for the nest, and every 
time soft wings fluttered off again for hair and 
feathers to line the nest.” Then his mate 
said, “ What are you singing about! ” And 
he answered, “ I am singing about everything 
and nothing. It is because I am so happy 
that I sing.” 

By and by five little speckled eggs were in 
the nest; and his mate said, “ Is there any¬ 
thing in all the world as pretty as my eggs ? ” 
Then they both looked down on some people 
that were passing by, and pitied them because 
they were not birds, and had no nests with 


eggs in them. Then the father-bird sang a 
melancholy song because he pitied folks that 
had no nests, but had to live in houses. 

In a week or two, one day, when the fa¬ 
ther-bird came home, the mother-bird said, 
“ O, what do you think has happened ? ” 
“ What? ” “ One of my eggs has been peep¬ 

ing and moving. ’ ’ Pretty soon another egg 
moved under her feathers, and then another, 
and another, till five little birds were born. 

Now the father-bird sung louder and louder 
than ever. The mother-bird, too, wanted to 
sing; but she had no time, so she turned her 
song into work. So hungry were these little 
birds that it kept both parents busy feeding 
them. Away each one flew. The moment 
the little birds heard their wings fluttering 
again among the leaves, five yellow mouths 
flew open so wide that nothing could be seen 
but five yellow mouths. 

“Can anybody be happier?” said the fa¬ 
ther-bird to the mother-bird. “ We will live 
in this tree always; for there is no sorrow here. 
It is a tree that always bears joy.” 

The very next day one of the birds dropped 
out of the nest, and a cat ate it up in a min- 




174 


HENRY WARD BEECHER. 


ute, and only four remained; and the parent 
birds were very sad, and there was no song 
all that day, nor the next. Soon the little 
birds were big enough to fly; and great was 
their parents’ joy to see them leave the nest, 
and sit crumpled up upon the branches. 
There was then a great time. One would 
have thought the two old birds were two 
French dancing-masters, talking and chatter¬ 
ing and scolding the little birds to make them 
go alone. 

The first bird that tried flew from one 
branch to another, and the parents praised 
him; and the other little birds wondered how he 
did it. And he was so vain of it that he tried 
again, and flew and flew, and couldn’t stop 
flying, till he fell plump down by the house- 
door; and then a little boy caught him and 
carried him into the house, and only three 
birds were left. Then the old birds thought 
that the sun was not as bright as it used to be, 
and they did not sing as often. 

In a little time the other birds had learned 
to use their wings; and they flew away and 
away, and found their own food, and made 
their own beds; and their parents never saw 
them any more. 

Then the old birds sat silent, and looked at 
each other a long while. 


At last the wife-bird said— 

“ Why don’t you sing ? ” 

And he answered— 

“ I can’t sing: I can only think and think.” 
“ What are you thinking of?” 

“ I am thinking how everything changes. 
The leaves are falling down from off this tree, 
and soon there will be no roof over our heads; 
the flowers are all gone or going; last night 
there was a frost; almost all the birds are flown 
away, and I am very uneasy. Something 
calls me, and I feel restless as if I would fly 
far away.” 

“ Let us fly away together! ” 

Then they rose silently ; and, lifting them¬ 
selves far up in the air, they looked to the 
north : far away they saw the snow com¬ 
ing They looked to the south: there they 
saw green leaves. All day they flew, and all 
night they flew and flew, till they found a 
land where there was no winter; where there 
was summer all the time; where flowers 
always blossom, and birds always sing. 

But the birds that stayed behind found the 
days shorter, the nights longer, and the 
weather colder. Many of them died of cold; 
others crept into crevices and holes, and lay 
torpid. Then it was plain that it was better 
to go than to stay. 


FAULTS. 


A MAN has a large emerald, but it is “ feath¬ 
ered,” and he knows an expert would 
say, “ What a pity that it has such a 
feather! ” it will not bring a quarter as much 
as it otherwise would; and he cannot take 
any satisfaction in it. A man has a diamond ; 
but there is a flaw in it, and it is not the dia¬ 
mond that he wants. A man has an opal, 
but it is imperfect, and he is dissatisfied with 
it. An opal is covered with little seams, but 
they must be the right kind of seams. If it 
has a crack running clear across, it is marred 
no matter how large it is, and no matter how 
wonderful its reflections are. And this man 
is worried all the time because he knows his 
opal is imperfect; and it would worry him 
even if he knew that nobody else noticed it. 


So it is in respect to dispositions, and in re¬ 
spect to character at large. Little cracks, 
little flaws, little featherings in them, take 
away their exquisiteness and beauty, and 
take away that fine finish which make moral 
art. How many noble men there are who are 
diminished, who are almost wasted, in their 
moral influence! How many men are like 
the red maple! It is one of the most gor¬ 
geous trees, both in spring, blossoming, and in 
autumn with its crimson foliage. But it stands 
knee-deep in swamp-water, usually. To get 
to it you must wade or leap from bog to bog, 
tearing your raiment and soiling yourself. I 
see a great many noble men, but they stand in 
a swamp of faults. They bear fruit that you 
fain would pluck, but there are briars and 





HENRY WARD BEECHER. 


175 


thistles and thorns all about it; and to get it 
you must make your way through all these 
hindrances. 

How many persons there are that are sur¬ 


rounded by a thousand little petty faults! 
They are so hedged in by these things that 
you lose all the comfort and joy you would 
otherwise have in them. 


PUBLIC DISHONESTY. 


A CORRUPT public sentiment produces 
dishonesty. A public sentiment in 
which dishonesty is not disgraceful; 
in which bad men are respectable, are trusted, 
are honored, are exalted, is a curse to the 
young. The fever of speculation, the univer¬ 
sal derangement of business, the growing lax¬ 
ness of morals is, to an alarming extent, intro¬ 
ducing such a state of things. 

If the shocking stupidity of the public mind 
to atrocious dishonesties is not aroused ; if 
good men do not bestir themselves to drag the 
young from this foul sorcery; if the relaxed 
bands of honesty are not tightened, and con¬ 
science tutored to a severer morality, our 
night is at hand—our midnight not far off. 
Woe to that guilty people who sit down upon 
broken laws, and wealth saved by injustice! 


Woe to a generation fed by the bread of fraud, 
whose children’s inheritance shall be a per¬ 
petual memento of their father’s unrighteous¬ 
ness ; to whom dishonesty shall be made 
pleasant by association with the revered mem¬ 
ories of father, brother and friend ! 

But when a whole people, united by com¬ 
mon disregard of justice, conspire to defraud 
public creditors, and States vie with States in 
an infamous repudiation of just debts, by open 
or sinister methods; and nations exert their 
sovereignty to protect and dignify the knavery 
of the commonwealth, then the confusion of 
domestic affairs has bred a fiend before whose 
flight honor fades away, and under whose feet 
the sanctity of truth and the religion of solemn 
compacts are stamped down and ground into 
the dirt. 


THE WAY OF LOOKING AT A GIFT. 


T HE other day, in walking down the street, 
a little beggar boy—or one who might 
have begged, so ragged was he—having 
discovered that I loved flowers, came and put 
into my hand a faded little sprig which he 
had somewhere found. I did not look directly 
at the scrawny withered branch, but beheld it 
through the medium of the boy’s heart, seeing 
what he would have given, not what he gave; 


A LL the sobriety which religion needs or 
requires is that which real earnestness 
produces. Tears and shadows are not 
needful to sobriety. Smiles and cheerfulness 
are as much its elements. When men say— 
Be sober, they usually mean, Be stupid ; but, 


and so looking, the shriveled stem was laden 
with blossoms of beauty and odor. And if I, 
who am cold and selfish, and ignorant, receive 
so graciously the offering of a poor child, with 
what tender joy must our heavenly Father 
receive the sincere tribute of his creatures 
when he looks through the medium of his 
infinite love and compassion ! 


when the Bible says, Be sober, it means, Rouse 
up and let fly the earnestness and vivacity of 
life. The old, Scriptural sobriety was effect¬ 
ual doing; the latter, ascetic sobriety is 
effectual dullness, and dullness is out of place 
in a bright world. 









Ethel Lynn Beers. 

Author of “ The Picket Guard.” 


IS American poetess, who is well known for several popular 
lyrics, was born at Goshen, N. J., in 1827. Her maiden name 
was Ethelinda Elliott. Her patriotic poem entitled, “ The 
Picket-guard,” or “ ‘All quiet along the Potomac,’ they say,” 
first published in “ Harper’s Weekly ” in 1861, became in¬ 
stantly popular, and its authorship was contested. Although 
her poetry is remarkable for simplicity of style and easy versification, it 
is yet full of life and spirit. A volume of her poems appeared in 1878, 
and in the following year she died. 



THE PICKET GUARD. 


^ A LL quiet along the Potomac,” they say, 
“ Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to 
and fro, 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 

’Tis nothing; a private or two, now and then, 
Will not count in the news of the battle; 
Not an officer lost—only one of the men, 
Moaniug out, all alone, the death rattle.” 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn 
moon, 

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; 
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 
Keep guard—for the army is sleeping. 

There’s only the sound of the lone seentry’s 
tread 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 

His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim, 
Grows gentle with memories tender, 

176 


As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 
For their mother—may Heaven defend her! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 
That night when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips—when low, murmured 
vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken; 

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 
He dashes off tears that are welling, 

And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree— 
The footsteps is lagging and weary; 

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of 
light, 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the 
leaves ? 

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? 
It looked like a rifle : “ Ha! Mary, good-by!” 
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night— 

No sound save the rush of the river; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— 
The picket’s off duty forever. 





Charles Farrar Browne. 

Known as “Artemus Ward.” 



UMOR appears to be tbe birthright of some persons. It comes 
as naturally as water flows from a spring. With others it is a 
manufactured article and poor at the best. Manufactured 
humor, concocted and emitted for the sake of appearing to be 
humorous, must always be a failure. There is much of real 
wit that never appears in print. It sparkles in the conversa¬ 
tion of men and women, and sometimes unconsciously in that of even 
children. 

The present sketch concerns a natural born humorist. Charles 
Farrar Browne did not have to put on the character he exhibited in his 
writings. He had only to act out the natural character which was his 
own. He was a native of Waterford, Maine, and was born in 1834. He 
began life as a compositor and occasional contributor to the daily and 
weekly journals. Starting out like so many New England boys to make 
his fortune, he became connected with the “Cleveland Plaindealer,” and 
contributed to this journal a description of an imaginary travelling 
menagerie under the style of “ Artemus Ward, Showman.” These arti¬ 
cles attracted wide attention, and in i860 he became editor of “Vanity 
Fair,” a humorous New York weekly, which proved a failure in spite of 
all his brilliant contributions. 

About the same time he began to appear as a lecturer, and by his 
droll and eccentric humor attracted large audiences. The title of one of 
his lectures was “ Babes in the Wood,” the pith of which was that he said 
nothing about Babes in the Wood, but hit off many of the follies and insipid 
customs of society, especially pompous bores who make a great flourish 
of saying nothing. In 1866 he visited England where he became exceed¬ 
ingly popular as a lecturer and as a contributor to “ Punch.” In the 
spring of the following year his health gave way and he died of con¬ 
sumption at Southampton on March 6, 1867. 

One of his works is entitled “ Artemus Ward among the Mormons.” 

12 177 



178 


ARTEMUS WARD 


He had opportunity to study the Mormons while on his way to California 
where he went to lecture. A theatrical manager telegraphed to him, 
“ What will you take for forty nights in California? Answer immedi¬ 
ately.” His prompt reply was “ Brandy and water.” He said concern¬ 
ing the Mormons, “their religion is singular but their wives are plural.” 
He was fond of giving to himself the character of showman and ming¬ 
ling lessons of hard common sense with his droll witticisms. “Artemus 
Ward, His Book,” was published in 1862, his “ Panorama ” in 1865, and 
“ Artemus Ward in England,” 1867. 


WOMAN’S RIGHTS. 


I PITCHT my tent in a small town in Inji- 
anny one day last seeson, and while I 
was standin at the dore takin money a 
deppytashun of ladies came up and sed they 
was members of the Bunkumville Female 
Reformin and Wimins’ Rites Associashun, 
and they axed me if they cood go in without 
payin. 

“ Not exactly,” sez I, “ but you can pay 
without goin in.” 

“ Dew you know who we air?” said one of 
the wimin—a tall and feroshus lookin critter, 
with a blew kotton umbreller under her arm 
—“ do you know who we air, Sir ? ” 

“ My impreshun is,” sed I, “ from a kersery 
view, that you are females.” 

“ We air, Sur,” sed the feroshus woman, 
“ we belong to a Society whitch beleeve wimin 
has rites—which beleeves in razin her to her 
proper speer—whitch beleeves she is indowed 
with as much intelleck as man is—whitch be¬ 
leeves she is trampled on and aboozed—and 
who will resist hense4th and forever the 
incroachments of proud and domineering 
men.” 

During her discourse, the exsentric female 
grabbed me by the coat kollor and was swing¬ 
ing her umbreller wildly over my hed^ 

“ I hope, marin,” sez I, starting back, “ that 
your intensions i§ honorable! I’m a lone 
man hear in a strange place. Besides, I’ve a 
wife to hum.” 

“ Yes,” cried the female, “ she is a slave! 
Doth she never dream of freedom—doth she 


never think of throwin of the yoke of tyrinny 
and thinkin and votin for herself!—Doth she 
never think of these here things?” 

“ Not bein a natural born fool,” sed I, by 
this time a little riled, “ I kin safely say that 
she dothunt.” 

“Oh what—what!” screamed the female, 
swinging her umbreller in the air. “ O, what 
is the price that woman pays for her expeerh 
unce! ” 

“ I don’t know,” sez I; “ the price of my 
show is 15 cents pur individooal.” 

“ & can’t our Society go in free?” asked the 
female. 

“ Not if I know it,” sed I. 

“ Crooil, Crooil man! ” she cried & burst 
into teers. 

“ Won’t you let my darter in ? ” sed anuther 
of the exsentric wimin, takin me afeckshu- 
nitely by the hand. “ O, please let my darter 
in—she’s a sweet gusliin child of natur.” 

“Let her gush!” roared I, as mad as I 
cood stick at their tarnal nonsense; “ let her 
gush? ’ Whereupon they all sprung back 
with the simultaneous observashun that I was 
a Beest. 

“ My female friends,” sed I, “ be4 you leeve, 
I’ve a few remarks to remark; wa them well. 
The female woman is one of the greatest in- 
stitooshuns of which this land can boste. It’s 
onpossible to get along without her. Had 
there bin no female wimin in the world, I 
should scarcely be here with my unparalled 
show on this very occashun, She is good in 




ARTEMUS WARD 


179 


sickness—good in wellness—good all the time. 
O woman, woman! ” I cried, my feelins 
worked up to a high poetick pitch, “ your air 
an angel when you behave yourself; but when 
you take off your proper appairel & (metty- 
foricolly speaken) get into pantyloons—when 
you desert your firesides, & with your heds 


full of wimin’s rites noshus go round like 
roarin lions, seekin whom you may devour 
someboddy—in short, when you undertake to 
play the man, you play the devil and air an 
emfatic noosance. My female friends,” I con¬ 
tinued, as they were indignantly departin, 
“ wa well what A. Ward has sed,” 


ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. 


“ I\ I\ R* SHAKER,” sed I, “you see before 

iVl y° u a Babe in the Woods, so to 
speak, and axes a shelter of you.” 

“ Yay,”said the shaker, and he led the way 
into the house, another bein’ sent to put my 
horse and wagon under kiver. 

A solum female, lookin’ somewhat like a 
last year’s bean-pole stuck into a long meal- 
bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and 
did I hunger? To which I asserted, “A few,” 
She went orf, and I endeavored to open a 
conversation with the old man. 

“ Elder, I spect,” sed I. 

“ Yay,” he said. 

“Health’s good, I reckon?” 

“ Yay.” 

“ What’s the wages of a Elder, when he un¬ 
derstands his bizness—or do you devote your 
sarvices gratooitous ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“Storm nigh, sir?” 

“ Yay.” 

“If the storm continues there’ll be a mess 
underfoot, hay ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“ If I may be so bold, kind sir, what’s the 
price of that pecooler kind of wesket you 
wear, includin trimmin’s ? ” 

“Yay.” 

I paused a minit, and, thinkin’ I’d be fass- 
shus with him and see how that would go, I 


slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty 
larf, and told him that as a yayer he had no 
livin’ ekel. 

He jumped up as if bilin’ water had been 
squirted into his ears, groaned, rolled his eyes 
up tords the sealin’ and sed: 

“ You’re a man of sin! ” 

He then walked out of the room. 

Directly thar cum in two young Shaker- 
esses, as putty and slick lookin’ galls as I ever 
met. It is troo they was drest in meal-bags 
like the old one I’d met previsly, and their 
shiny, silky hair was hid from sight by long, 
white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; 
but their eyes sparkled like diamonds, their 
cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin’ 
enuff to make a man throw stuns at his grand¬ 
mother, if they axed him to. They commenst 
clearing away the dishes, casting shy glances 
at me all the time. I got excited. I forgot 
Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I : 

“ My pretty dears, how air you ? ” 

“We air well,” they solumly sed. 

“ Where is the old man ? ” said I, in a soft 
voice. 

“ Of whom dost thou speak—Brother 
Uriah?” 

“ I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls 
me a man of sin. Shouldn’t wonder if his 
name was’t Uriah.” 

“ He has retired.” 





Fitz-Greene Halleck. 

Author of “ Marco Bozzaris.” 


HIS American poet was born at Guilford, Connecticut, July 8, 
1790. By his mother he was descended from John Eliot, “ the 
apostle of the Indians.” He became a clerk in a bank in New 
York in 1811, and in 1832 the private secretary of John Jacob 
Astor; 1849 he retired, on an annuity of $200 left him by 
Astor, to his native town, where he spent the remainder of his 
days, and died November 19, 1867. 

From his boyhood Halleck wrote verses, and in 1819 he contributed, 
with Joseph Rodman Drake, a series of humorous satirical papers in 
verse to the New York “ Evening Post.” In the same year he published 
his longest poem, “ Fanny,” a satire on the literature, fashions, and poli¬ 
tics of the time, in the measure of “ Don Juan.” He visited Europe in 
1822, and in 1827 published anonymously an edition of his poems. In 
1865 he published “ Young America,” a poem of three hundred lines. 

His complete “ Poetical Writings ” have been edited by his bio¬ 
grapher (1869). Halleck is a fair poet. His style is spirited, flowing, 
graceful and harmonious. His poems display much geniality and tender 
feeling. Their humor is quaint and pungent, and if not rich is always 
refined. The poem by which he is better known than by any other is 
entitled, “Marco Bozzaris,” beginning with the well known line, “At 
midnight, in his guarded tent.” 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 


A T midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance 
Should tremble at his power. [bent, 

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard; 

Then wore his monarch’s signet-ring— 

Then pressed that monarch’s throne—a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden’s garden bird. 

180 


At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band— 

True as the steel of their tried blades, 
Heroes in heart and hand. 

There had the Persian’s thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood 
On old Platsea’s day; 

And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arms to strike, and souls to dare, 

As quick, as far, as they. 





FITZ-GREENE HAREECK. 


181 


An hour passed on—the Turk awoke: 

That bright dream was his last; 

He woke—to hear his sentries shriek, 

“ To arms ! they come ! the Greek! the 
Greek! 

He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke, 

And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 

And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
Bozzaris cheer his band : 

“ Strike—till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike—for your altars and your fires ; 

Strike—for the green graves of your sires, 

God—and your native land! ” 

They fought—like brave men, long and 
well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain; 
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell 
Bleeding at every vein. 

His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah 
And the red field was won; 

Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night’s repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Bozzaris! with the storied brave 
Greece nurtured in her glory’s time, 

Rest thee—there is no prouder gave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 


She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
Like torn branch from death’s leaflless tree, 
In sorrow’s pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 

But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 

For thee her poet’s lyre is wreathed, 

Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells; 

Of thee her babe’s first lisping tells; 

For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed. 

Her soldier, closing with the foe, 

Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; 

His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 

Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 

Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys— 

And even she who gave thee birth, 

Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh; 

For thou art freedom’s now, and fame’s— 
One of the few, the immortal names 
That were not born to die. 


JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 


G REEN be the turf above thee, 
Friend of my better days! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 
Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep, 

And long, where thou art lying, 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth ; 


And I, who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
Whose weal and woe were thine,- 

It should be mine to braid it 
Around thy faded brow, 

But I’ve in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thought nor words are free, 
The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 







Abraham Lincoln. 

Our First Martyred President. 


EXT to the name of Washington none stands higher on the roll 
of illustrious Americans than that of Abraham Lincoln. 
Indeed, the sixteenth President of the United States, the skill¬ 
ful pilot who guided our ship of state through the stormy 
period of the great Civil War, is one of the most majestic 
figures in history. The occasion was great, and he was not 
only equal to it, but rose above it in such magnificent proportions as to 
impress the whole civilized world. While he cannot be called the “ Father 
of his Country,” he has been denominated its saviour. The tragic close 
of his life by the hand of an assassin gave him somewhat of the charac¬ 
ter of a martyr, and has rendered his memory peculiar^ sacred. 

Mr. Lincoln was born in Hardin County, Kentucky, February 12, 
1809. He learned the little that the backwoods schools were capable of 
teaching, and was employed in rough farm-work until at the age of nine¬ 
teen he took on a flat-boat a cargo to New Orleans. This was followed 
later by a second trading voyage, both of which showed the enterprise 
aud self-reliance of the future celebrity. He studied law, removed to 
Springfield, Illinois, and soon attracted attention as a rising young lawyer 
of marked ability. He was elected to the State Legislature in 1834 and 
served until 1842, having by this time become a leader among the Whigs. 
In the latter year he was married to Mary Todd, daughter of Robert Todd 
of Lexington, Kentucky. 

In 1846, Mr. Lincoln was elected to Congress, but his service was 
limited to a single term. In 1854, Stephen A. Douglass, United States 
Senator from Illinois, by his Kansas-Nebraska bill, repealed the Missouri 
Compromise of 1820, and reopened the question of slavery in the terri¬ 
tories. When the Republican party was organized in 1856 to oppose the 
extension of slavery, Mr. Lincoln was its most prominent representative 
in Illinois. A public debate on the political questions of the hour 
between him and Senator Douglass in 1858, attracted the attention of the 

182 






ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 


183 


whole country and brought out brilliantly Mr. Lincoln’s great power in 
debate, his ready eloquence, his practical common sense, his fund of 
humor, and placed him among the foremost men of the country, preparing 
the way for his election to the Presidency in i860. 

He did all that lay in his power to avert the Civil War, but plainly 
avowed his intention to uphold, according to his oath, the Constitution 
and administration of the laws of the country. How ably, how wisely, 
how fearlessly, and with what fidelity to his country’s cause he did this, 
with what charity toward his enemies he carried himself, with what far¬ 
sighted wisdom his public measures were promulgated, and how he stood 
like a massive, unmovable tower of strength through the great conflict 
that rocked our nation, is now a matter of well-known history. 

The Federal arms having been victorious after many defeats, and 
Mr. Lincoln having proved himself to be master of the situation, he was 
re-elected by a large popular majority in 1864. In his second inaugural 
address in March, 1865, he rose above the ordinary range of such occa¬ 
sions, and like an inspired prophet set forth the profound moral signifi¬ 
cance of the war he saw drawing to a close. A month later he entered 
Richmond, from which Grant had driven Davis and Lee. 

On the 14th of April, 1865, he was assassinated by J. Wilkes Booth, 
an actor, and died the next morning. The national rejoicing over the 
return of peace was turned into grief for the martyred President. The 
whole civilized world joined in expressions of sorrow for his fate. 

Mr. Lincoln’s state papers and speeches are models of plain English, 
good sense and lofty thought. He wrote and said things that are a 
permanent part of American literature, although not an author in the 
strict meaning of the term. 


ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY. 


No utterance of any public man has been more admired for its eloquence and appropri¬ 
ateness to the occasion than Mr. Lincoln’s address at Gettysburg. It will live as long as his 
name does. 


F OURSCORE and seven years ago our 
fathers brought forth upon this conti¬ 
nent a new nation, conceived in liberty, 
and dedicated to the proposition that all men 
are created equal. Now we are engaged in a 
great civil war, testing whether that nation, 
or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, 
can long endure. We are met on a great 


battle-field of that war. We are met to dedi¬ 
cate a portion of it as the final resting-place 
of those who here gave their lives that that 
nation might live. 

It is altogether fitting and proper that we 
should do this. But in a larger sense we 
cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we 
cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, 




184 


ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 


living and dead, who straggled here, have 
consecrated it far above our power to add or 
detract. The world will little note, nor long 
remember what we say here, but it can never 
forget what they did here. 

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated 
here to the unfinished work they have thus 
far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us 
to be here dedicated to the great task remain¬ 


ing before us, that from these honored dead 
we take increased devotion to the cause for 
which they gave the last full measure of 
devotion; that we here highly resolve that 
these dead shall not have died in vain, and 
that the nation shall, under God, have a new 
birth of freedom, and that the government of 
the people, by the people, and for the people 
shall not perish from the earth. 


RETRIBUTION. 

EXTRACT FROM SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 


T HE Almighty has His own purposes. 
“ Woe unto the world because of 
offences! for it must needs be that 
offences come; but woe to the man by whom 
the offence cometh.” If we shall suppose that 
American slavery is one of those offences 
which, iu the providence of God, must needs 
come, but which, having continued through 
His appointed time, He now wills to remove, 
and that He gives to both North and South 
this terrible war, as the woe due to those by 
whom the offence came, shall we discern 
therein any departure from those divine attri¬ 
butes which the believers in a living God 
always ascribe to Him! 

Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, 
that this mighty scourge of war may speedily 
pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue 


until all the wealth piled by the bondmans’ 
two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil 
shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood 
drawn with the lash shall be paid by another 
drawn with the sword, as was said three thou¬ 
sand years ago, so still it must be said, “ The 
judgments of the Lord are true and righteous 
altogether.” 

With malice toward none; with charity for 
all; with firmness in the right, as God gives 
us to see the right, let us strive on to finish 
the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s 
wounds; to care for him who shall have borne 
the battle, and for his widow and his orphan— 
to do all which may achieve and cherish a just 
and a lasting peace among ourselves, aud 
with all nations. 






George Denison Prentice. 

Poet and Journalist. 


RKAT beauty characterizes the poems of this gifted author, 
while in strong contrast with it his brilliant witticisms have 
made him famous. These qualities are not often found in one 
writer, but Mr. Prentice combines them to their fullest extent. 
His witticisms were thrown off daily in his long career of jour¬ 
nalism, while his poems were mostly written in early life before 
he left the University. 

George D. Prentice was born at Preston, Connecticut, in 1802, and 
graduated at Brown University in 1823. He founded “ The New Eng¬ 
land Review ” in 1828, and on this periodical was associated for a time 
with John G. Whittier. In 1831 he became the editor of the “ Louisville 
Journal ” in Kentucky, which soon acquired the reputation of one of the 
ablest and most brilliant journals of the country. A collection of his 
humorous writings, entitled “ Prenticeana,” appeared in i860. He died 
in 1870. 



WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER’S GRAVE. 


T HE trembling dew-drops fall 

Upon the shutting flowers; like souls at rest 
The stars shine gloriously; and all 
Save me, are blest. 

Mother, I love thy grave! 

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, 
Waves o’er thy head; when shall it wave 
Above thy child ? 

’T is a sweet flower, yet must 
Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow; 
Dear mother, ’t is thine emblem ; dust 
Is on thy brow. 

And I could love to die: 

To leave untasted life’s dark, bitter streams— 
By thee, as erst in childhood, lie, 

And share thy dreams. 


And I must linger here, 

To stain the plumage of my sinless years, 

And mourn the hopes to childhood dear 
With bitter tears. 

Ay, I must linger here, 

A lonely branch upon a withered tree, 

Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, 

Went down with thee! 

Oft, from life’s withered bower, 

In still communion with the past, I turn, 

And muse on thee, the only flower 
In memory’s urn. 

And, when the evening pale 
Bows, like a mourner, on the dim, blue wave, 
I stray to hear the night-winds wail 
Around thy grave. 


185 





186 


GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE. 


Where is thy spirit flown ? 

I gaze above—thy look is imaged there; 

I listen—and thy gentle tone 
Is on the air. 

O, come, while here I press 
My brow upon thy grave; and, in those mild 


A LONE I walked the ocean strand, 

A pearly shell was in my hand : 

I stooped and wrote upon the sand 
My name, the year and day:— 

As onward from the spot I passed. 

One lingering look behind I cast— 

A wave came rolling high and fast, 

And washed my line away. 

And so, methought, ’t will quickly be 
With every mark on earth with me : 

A wave of dark oblivion’s sea 
Will sweep across the place 


And thrilling tones of tenderness, 

Bless, bless thy child! 

Yes, bless your weeping child; 

And o’er thine urn—religion’s holiest shrine— 
O, give his spirit, undefiled, 

To blend with thine. 


THE SAND. 

Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been to be no more— 

Of me, my day, the name I bore, 

To leave no track or trace. 

And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
And holds the water in his hands, 

I know a lasting record stands, 

Inscribed against my name, 

Of all this mortal part has wrought, 

Of all this thinking soul has thought, 
And from these fleeting moments caught, 
For glory or for shame. 


A NAME IN 


TO A 

THINK of thee when morning springs 
From sleep, with plumage bathed in dew, 
And, like a young bird, lifts her wings 
Of gladness on the welkin blue. 

And when, at noon, the breath of love 
O’er flower and stream is wandering free, 
And sent in music from the grove, 

I think of thee—I think of thee. 

I think of thee, when, soft and wide, 

The evening spreads her robes of light, 


LADY. 

And, like a young and timid bride, 

Sits blushing in the arms of night. 

And when the moon’s sweet crescent springs 
In light o’er heaven’s deep, waveless sea, 
And stars are forth, like blessed things, 

I think of thee—I think of thee. 

I think of thee ;—that eye of flame, 

Those tresses, falling bright and free. 

That brow, where “ Beauty writes her name,” 
I think of thee—I think of thee. 


HEAVEN OUR HOME. 


I T cannot be that earth is man’s only abid¬ 
ing-place. It cannot be that our life is a 
bubble, cast up by the ocean of eternity, 
to float another moment upon its surface, and 
then sink into nothingness and darkness for¬ 
ever. Else why is it that the high and glori¬ 
ous aspirations which leap like angels from the 
temples of our hearts, are forever wandering 
abroad, unsatisfied? Why is it that the rain¬ 
bow and the cloud come over us with a beauty 


that is not of earth, and then pass off and 
leave us to muse on their faded loveliness ? 

We are born for a higher destiny than that 
of earth. There is a realm where the rainbow 
never fades; where the stars will be spread out 
before us like the islands that slumber on the 
ocean; and where the beautiful beings that 
here pass before us like visions will stay in our 
preseuce forever! The dearest thought of 
heaven is that it is home. 









Henry W. Shaw. 

Known as “Josh Billings.” 


ARK TWAIN once remarked that he knew a man who always 
spelled “ cow ” with a capital “ K,” and he did not see why this 
was not quite as correct as to spell it with a small “ k.” The 
quaint spelling adopted by some authors, notably Artemus 
Ward and Josh Billings, has had much to do with the popular¬ 
ity of their productions. 

Mr. Shaw was a son of a member of the Massachusetts Legislature 
and Congressman, and was born April 21, 1818. Having entered Hamil¬ 
ton College he soon tired of a student’s life and ran away to lead a roving 
life in the West. At one time he was a dealer in coal; again, a farmer; 
and then a steamboat captain, finally settling in Poughkeepsie, N. Y., as 
a real-estate agent and auctioneer. He wrote an “ Essay on the Mule,” 
which received no attention; then adopting dialectic spelling his “ Essa 
on the Muel, by Josh Billings,” was reproduced in half the newspapers 
throughout the country. 

He became popular as a lecturer by his homely humor, plain common 
sense and droll manner. He published “Josh Billings, his Sayings;” 
“Josh Billings on Ice,” “Every Boddy’s Friend,” “Trump Kards,” 
“Josh Billings’ Spice-Box,” and in 1869 “Josh Billings’ Allminax,” 
which continued for ten years with an average circulation of over 100,000 
copies a year. He died at Monterey, California, in 1885. 



NOT ENNY SHANGHI FOR ME. 


T HE sbanghi ruster is a gentile, and speaks 
in a forrin tung. He is built on piles 
like a Sandy Hill crane. If he had bin 
bilt with 4 legs, he wud resembel the peruvian 
lama. He is not a game animil, but quite 
often cums off seckund best in a ruff and tum¬ 
ble fite; like the injuns, tha kant stand civili¬ 
zation, and are fast disappearing. 

Tha crow like a jackass, troubled with the 


bronskeeters. Tha will eat as mutch tu onst 
as a district skule master, and ginerally sit 
down rite oph tew keep from tipping over. 

The femail ruster lays an eg as big as a 
kokernut, and is sick for a week afterwards, 
and when she hatches out a litter of yung 
shanghis she has tew brood them standing, and 
then kant kiver but 3 ov them—the rest stand 
around on the outside, like boys around a cir- 

187 






188 


HENRY W. SHAW. 


bus tent, gitting a peep under the kanvas when 
ever tha ban. 

The man who fust brought the breed into 
this kuntry ought to own them all and be 
obliged tew feed them on grasshoppers, caught 
bi hand. 

I never owned but one, and he got choked 
tu deth bi a kink in a clothes line, but not 
until he had swallered 18 feet ov it. 

Not enny shanghi for me, if you pleze; i 
wuld rather board a travelling kolporter, and 
as for eating one, give me a biled owl rare 
dun, or a turkee buzzard, roasted hole, and 
stuffed with a pair ov injun rubber boots, but 
not enny shanghi for me, not a shanghi! 
Speaking ov hens, leads me tew remark, in the 
fust place, that hens, thus far, are a suckcess. 
They are domestick, and occasionally are tuff. 
This iz owing tew their not being biled often 
enuff in their younger daze; but the hen aint 
tew blame for this. Biled hen iz universally 
respekted. 

Thare is a great deal ov originality tew the 
hen—exactly how mutch i kant tell, historians 
fight so mutch about it. Sum say Knower had 
hens in the ark and some say he didn’t. So it 
goes, which and tuther. I kant tell yu which 
was born fust, the hen or the egg; sumtimes I 
think the egg waz—and sumtimes i think the 
hen waz—and sumtimes i think i don’t kno 
and i kant tell now, which way iz right, for 
the life ov me. Laying eggs iz the hen’s best 
grip. A hen that kant lay eggs iz laid out. 
One eg iz konsidered a fair day’s work for a 
hen. I hav herd ov their doing better, but i 


don’t want a hen ov mine tew do it—it iz apt 
tew hurt their constitution and bye-laws, and 
thus impare their filter worth. The poet ses, 
butifully, 

“ Sumboddy haz stolen our old blew hen! 

I wish they’d let her bee; 

She used tew lay 2 eggs a day, 

And Sunday she’d lay 3.” 

This sounds trew enuff for poetry, but i will 
bet 75 thousand dollars that it never took 
place. The best time tew sett a hen iz when 
the hen iz reddy. I kant tell you what the 
best breed iz, but the shanghi is the meanest. 

It kosts as mutch tew board one as it duz a 
stage hoss, andyu might as well undertake tew 
fat a fanning mill, by running oats thru it. 
Thare aint no proffit in keeping a hen for his 
eggs, if he laze less than one a day. 

Hens are very long lived, if they dont con- 
trakt the thrut disseaze—thare is a great 
menny goes tew pot, every year, bi this melan- 
kolly disseaze. I kant tell exactly how tew 
pick out a good hen, but as a general thing, 
the long eared ones are kounted the best. 

The one legged ones, i kno, are the less apt 
tew skratch up a garden. 

Eggs packed in equal parts ov salt, and lime 
water, with the other end down, will keep from 
30, or 40, years, if they are not disturbed. 

Fresh beef-stake iz good for hens; i serpose 
4 or 5 pounds a day would be awl a hen would 
need, at fust along. 

I shall be happy to advise with yu, at enny 
time, on the hen question, and take it in egg. 


LETTERS TO FARMERS. 


B eloved farmers : Agrikuitur iz 

the mother ov farm produce; she is also 
the step-mother ov gardin sass. 

Rize at half-past 2 o’clock in the morning, 
bildup a big fire in the kitchen, burn out two 
pounds ov kandles, and grease yure boots. 
Wait pashuntly for dabrak. When day duz 
brake, then commence tew stir up the geese 
and worry the hogs. 

Thehappyest man in the world iz the farmer; 
he rizes at 2 o’clock in the morning, he watches 
for da lite tew brake, and when she duz brake, 


he goes out and stirs up the geese and worrys 
the hogs. 

What iz a lawyer ? —What iz a merchant ?— 
What iz a doktor?—What iz a minister?—I 
answer, nothing! 

A farmer is the nobless work ov God; he 
rizes at 2 o’clock in the morning, and burns 
out a half a pound of wood and two kords of 
kandles, and then goes out tew worry the 
geese and stir up the hogs. 

Beloved farmers, adew, 

Josh Billings. 





Marietta Holley. 

H umorous Writer. 


ATURAL mirth and wit are evidently the birthright of Miss 
Holley. She sees the ludicrous side of things wherever one 
is to be found, and in the most agreeable manner presents it to 
her readers. It seems to be as natural for her to do this as it 
is for a bird to sing or water to seek its level. Without appar¬ 
ent effort, without anything that is far-fetched and with delight¬ 
ful ease, she entertains us with the experiences of “Josiah Allen’s Wife,’’ 
which have a distinct country flavor. 

Miss Holley was born near Adams, Jefferson County, N. Y. Her 
family for several generations resided in this locality and were industri¬ 
ous, thrifty, reputable people. In her early years she began writing 
sketches, little poems and essays, some of which were published in local 
papers, and gave indication of the future fame of the author. Her first 
real literary venture was sending an article to “ Peterson’s Magazine ” in 
Philadelphia. She had been known under the pen name of “ Jemyme,’’ 
but now took the name by which she is best known of “ Josiah Allen’s 
Wife.” 

It is said that her book under this name was refused by the American 
Publishing Co., of Hartford, as not being worthy of publication. A 
member of the firm, however, thought differently and undertook to bring 
it out, the result of which was a conspicuous success. By his encourage¬ 
ment she wrote another work entitled, “ My Opinions and Betsy Bobbet’s,” 
which was issued in 1872. Since that time she has become so well known 
that her works are in constant demand. “ Samantha at the Centennial ” 
was published in 1877. It detailed the humorous experiences of herself 
and Josiah at the great exposition. Several additional works were issued 
by her Hartford publisher, all of which commanded attention and have 
had a good sale. “ Sweet Cicely, or Josiah Allen’s Wife as a Politician,” 
appeared in New York in 1885. 

One of her most remarkable successes is “ Samantha at Saratoga,” 





190 


MARIETTA HOLLEY. 


for which she received $10,000 before it was issued by a Philadelphia 
publisher. It is said that nearly one quarter of a million copies of this 
book have been sold. Miss Holley has also been a contributor to the 
“ Ladies’ Home Journal,” and in 1894 issued another humorous work 
entitled, “Samantha at the World’s Fair.” Miss Holley’s humor is of 
the wholesome type, imbued with common sense and she never provokes 
laughter at anything which is good. Rather, in the most playful and 
laughter provoking manner, does she hit off the follies and foibles of 
society. She can see something humorous in almost every person, every 
snatch of conversation and every style of dress. 


JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE CALLS ON THE PRESIDENT. 

FROM “SWEET CICELY Permission op Funk & Wagnalls. 


A ND so we wended our way down the 
broad, beautiful streets towards the 
White House. 

Handsomer streets I never see. I had 
thought Jonesville streets wus middlin’ hand¬ 
some and roomy. Why, two double wagons 
can go by each other in perfect safety, right 
in front of the grocery stores, where there is 
lots of boxes too; and wimmen can be 
a-walkin’ there too at the same time, hefty 
ones. 

But, good land! loads of hay could pass 
each other here, and droves of dromedaries, 
and camels, and not touch each other, and 
then there would be lots of room for men and 
wimmen, and for wagons to rumble, and peri- 
oguers to float up and down—if perioguers 
could sail on dry land. 

Roomier, handsomer, well-shadeder streets 
I never want to see, nor don’t expect to. 
Why Jonesville streets are like tape compared 
with ’em; and Loontown and Toad Holler, 
they are like thread, No. 50 (allegory). 

Bub Smith was well acquainted with the 
President’s hired man, so he let us in without 
parlay. 

I don’t believe in talkin’ big as a general 
thing. But think’es I, Here I be, a-holdin’ 
up the dignity of Jonesville: and here I be, 
on a deep, heart-search in’ errent to the 
Nation. So I said, in words and axents a 
good deal like them I have read of in “ Chil¬ 


dren of the Abbey ” and “ Charlotte Tem¬ 
ple.”— 

“Is the President of the United States 
within ? ” 

He said he was, but said sunthin’ about his 
not receiving calls in the mornings. 

But I says in a very polite way,—for I like 
to put folks at their ease, presidents or ped¬ 
dlers or anything.— 

“It hain’t no matter at all if he hain’t 
dressed up; of course he wasn’t expectin’ 
company. Josiah don’t dress up mornin’s. 

And then he says something about “ he 
didn’t know but he was engaged.” 

Says I, “ That hain’t no news to me, nor 
the Nation. We have been a-hearin’ that for 
three years, right along. And if he is 
engaged, it ain’t no good reason why he 
shouldn’t speak to other wimmen,—good, 
honorable married ones too.” 

“ Well,” says he, finally, “ I will take up 
your card.” 

“No, you won’t! ” says I firmly, “ I am a 
Methodist! I guess I can start off on a short 
tower without takin’ a pack of cards with me. 
And if I had ’em right here in my pocket, or 
a set of dominoes, I shouldn’t expect to take 
up the time of the President of the United 
States a-playin’ games at this time of the 
day.” Says I, in deep tones, “ I am a-carrien’ 
errents to the President that the world knows 
not of.’ 





MARIETTA HOLLEY. 


191 


He blushed up red ; he was ashamed ; and 
he said, “ he would see if I could be admitted.” 


1 was jest a-thinkin’ this when the hired 
man came back, and said,— 

“ The President would receive me.” 

“Wall,” says I, calmly, “I am ready to be 
received.” 

So I follered him; and he led the way into 
a beautiful room, kinder round, and red- 
colored, with lots of elegant pictures and 
lookin’-glasses and books. 

He then shook hands with me, and I with 
him. I, too, am a perfect lady. And then 
he drawed up a chair for me with his own 
hands (hands that grip holt of the same helium 
that G. W. had gripped holt of. O soul! be 
calm when I think on’t), and asked me to set 
down; and consequently I sot. 

I leaned my umberell in a easy, careless 
position against a adjacent chair, adjusted my 
long green veil in long, graceful folds,—I 
hain’t vain, but I like to look well,—and then 
I at once told him of my errents. I told 
him — 

“ I had brought three errents to him from 
Jonesville,—one for myself, and two for Dor- 
lesky Burpy.” 

He bowed, but didn’t say nothin’: he looked 
tired. Josiah always looks tired in the morn- 
in’ when he has got his milkin’ and barn- 
chores done, so it didn’t surprise me. And 
havin’ calculated to tackle him on my own 
errent first, consequently I tackled him. 

I told him how deep my love and devotion 
t.) my pardner wuz. 

And he said “he had heard of it.” 

And I says, “I s’pose so. I s’pose such 
things will spread, bein’ a sort of a rarity. 
I’d heard that it had got out, ’way beyend 
Loontown, and all round.” 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it was spoke of a good 
deal.” 

“ Wall,” says I, “ the cast-iron love and de¬ 
votion I feel for that man don’t show off the 
brightest in hours of joy and peace. It 
towers up strongest in dangers and troubles.” 


And when I went on to tell him how Josiah 
wanted to come there as a senator, and what 
a dangerous place I had always heard Wash- 
ington wuz, and how I had felt it was impossi¬ 
ble for me to lay down on my goose-feather 
pillow at home, in peace and safety, while my 
pardner was a-grapplin’ with dangers of 
which I did not know the exact size and heft. 
Then, says I, solemnly, “ I ask you, not as a 
politician, but as a human bein’, would you 
dast to let Josiah come?” 

The President didn’t act surprised a mite. 
And finally he told me, what I had always 
mistrusted, but never knew, that Josiah had 
wrote to him all his political views and aspira¬ 
tions, and offered his help to the government. 
And says he, “ I think I know all about the 
man.” 

“ Then,” says I, “ you see he is a good deal 
like other men.” 

And he said, sort o’ dreamily, “that he 
was.” 

Finally the suspense of the moment wore 
onto me too deep to bear, and I says, in 
almost harrowin’ tones of anxiety and sus¬ 
pense,— 

“ Would it be safe for my pardner to come 
to Washington ? Would it be safe for Josiah, 
safe for the nation ? ” Says I, in deeper, mourn- 
fuller tones,— 

“Would you—would you dast to let him 
come ?” 

And he said, in gentle, gracious tones, “ If 
I tell you just what I think, I would not like 
to say it officially, but would say it in confi¬ 
dence, as from an Allen to an Allen.” 

Says I, “ It shan’t go no further.” 

And so I would warn everybody that it 
must not be told. 

Then says he, “ I will tell you. I wouldn’t 
dast.” 

Says I, “ That settles it. If human efforts 
can avail, Josiah Allen will not be United 
States Senator.” And says I, “ You have 
only confirmed my fears. I knew, feelin’ as 
he felt, that it wuzn’t safe for Josiah or the 
nation to have him come.” 

Agin he reminded me that it was told to 
me in confidence, and agin I want to say that 
it must be kep’. 



John Townsend Trowbridge. 

Author of “ The Vagabonds.” 



S a novelist Mr. Trowbridge has achieved distinction. In 1857 
he issued “ Neighbor Jackwood; ” “ The Old Battle-Gro'und ” 
in 1859; “ Cudjo’s Cave” in 1864, and “Lucy Arlyn ” and 
“ Coupon Bonds ” in 1866.- 

He is best known, however, by one poem, “ The Vagabonds,” 
which has been read and admired more than any other similar 
production. A simplicity and touching pathos characterize it and move 
the heart of the reader, while a tragic force enthralls his attention and 
awakens genuine sympathy for the tramp. Mr. Trowbridge was born at 
Ogden, N. Y., 1827. 


THE VAGABONDS. 


W E are two travelers, Rodger and I. 

Roger’s my dog:—come here, you 
scamp! 

Jump for the gentlemen—mind your eye! 

Over the table—look out for the lamp!— 
The rogue is growing a little old; 

Five years we’ve tramped through wind 
and weather, 

And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 
And ate and drank—and starved together. 

We’ve learned what comfort is, I tell you! 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! 

The paw he holds up there’s been frozen,) 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 

(This out-door business is bad for strings,) 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the 
griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for kings! 

No, thank ye, sir—I never drink; 

Rodger and I are exceedingly moral— 
Aren’t we, Roger?—see him wink! 

Well, something hot, then—we won’t quarrel. 
192 


He’s thirsty, too—see him nod his head ? 

What a pity, sir, that dogs can’t talk! 

He understands every word that’s said— 

And he knows good milk from water-and- 
chalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I’ve been so sadly given to grog, 

I wonder I’ve not lost the respect 
(Here’s to you, sir!) even of my dog. 

But he sticks by, through thick and thin ; 

And this old coat, with its empty pockets, 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He’ll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 

There isn’t another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every dis¬ 
aster. 

So fond, faithful, and so forgiving, 

To such a miserable, thankless master! 

No, sir!—see him wag his tail and grin! 

By George! it makes my old eyes water! 
That is, there’s something in this gin 
That chokes a fellow. But no matter! 







JOHN TOWNSEND TROW BRIDGE. 


198 


We’ll have some music, if you’re willing, 

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough 
is sir !) 

Shall march a little—Start you villian! 

Stand straight! ’Bout face! Salute your 
officer! 

Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle! 
(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold 
your 

Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier! 

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes 
When he stands up to hear his sentence. 
Now tell us how many drams it takes 
To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 

Five yelps—that’s five; lie’s mighty knowing! 

The night’s before us, fill the glasses! 

Quick, sir! I’m ill—my brain is going ! 

Some brandy!—thank you!—there!—it 
passes! 

Why not reform ? That’s easily said ; 

But I’ve gone through such wretched treat¬ 
ment. 

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
That my poor stomach’s past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I’d sell out heaven for something warm 
To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 

A dear girl’s love—but I took to drink ;— 
The same old story; you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features— 
You needn’t laugh, sir; they were not then 
Such a burning libel on God’s creatures; 

I was one of your handsome men. 

If you had seen her, so fair and young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast! 

If you could have heard the songs I sung 
When the wine went round, you wouldn’t 
have guessed 
13 


That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 
To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 

She’s married since—a parson’s wife: 

’Twas better for her that we should part— 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 
Than a blasted home and a brok en heart, 

I have seen her? Once: I was weak and 
spent, 

On the dusty road, a carriage stopped : 

But little she dreamed, as on she went, 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ; 

You’ve set me talking, sir; I’m sorry ; 

It makes me wild to think of the change! 
What do you care for a beggar’s story ! 

Is it amusing? you find it strange? 

I had a mother so proud of me! 

’Twas well she died before—Do you know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 
The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 

I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 
Aching thing, in place of a heart ? 

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he 
could, 

No doubt remembering things that were— 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food. 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I’m better now ; that glass was warming,— 
You rascal! limber your lazy feet! 

We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the 
street— 

Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are 
free. 

And the sleepers need neither victuals nor 
drink;— 

The sooner, the better for Roger and me f 



James Thomas Fields. 

Lecturer and Poet. 


editor of the “ Atlantic Monthly” between 1862 and 1870, and 
as lecturer for many years on literary subjects, Mr. Fields 
became favorably known to the reading public. He was born 
at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in 1817, and for more than 
thirty years was a partner in the publishing firm of Ticknor, 
Reed and Fields in Boston. He was an intimate friend of 
Charles Dickens and wrote interesting works on him and Hawthorne. 

Mr. Fields is the author of several books of poems, which are charac¬ 
terized by facility iu narration, easy and graceful versification and the 
treatment of ordinary subjects in such a way as to invest them with fasci¬ 
nating interest. He died iu Boston, April 24, 1881. 



DIRGE FOR A 

NDERNEATH the sod low-lying, 
Dark and drear, 

Sleepeth one who left in dying, 
Sorrow here. 

Yes, they’re ever bending o’er her 
Eyes that weep; 

Forms, that to the cold grave bore her, 
Vigils keep. 


YOUNG GIRL. 

When the summer moon is shining 
Soft and fair, 

Friends she loved in tears are twining 
Chaplets there. 

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, 
Throned above,— 

Souls like thine with God inherit 
Life and love! 



THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER. 


M ANY a long, long year ago, 

Nantucket skippers had a plan 
Of finding out, though “ lying low,” 
How near New York their schooners ran. 

They greased the lead before it fell, 

And then by sounding, through the night, 
Knowing the soil that stuck so well, 

They always guessed their reckoning right. 
194 


A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, 
Could tell, by tasting, just the spot, 

And so below he’d “ douse the glim,”— 
After, of course, his “ something hot.’* 

Snug in his berth, at eight o’clock, 

This ancient skipper might be found; 
No matter how his craft would rock, 

He slept,—for skipper’s naps are sound. 







JAMES THOMAS FIELDS. 


195 


The watch on deck would now and then 
Run down and wake him, with the lead; 
He’d up, and taste, and tell the men 
How many miles they went ahead. 

One night ’twas Jotham Marden’s watch. 

A curious wag,—the pedlar’s son ; 

And so he mused (the wanton wretch!) 

“ To-night I’ll have a grain of fun. 

“ We’re all a set of stupid fools, 

To think the skipper knows, by tasting, 
What ground he’s on ; Nantucket schools 
Don’t teach such stuff, with all their bast¬ 
ing!” 


And so he took the well-greased lead, 

And rubbed it o’er a box of earth 
That stood on deck—a parsnip bed, 

And then he sought the skipper’s berth. 

“ Where are we now, sir ? Please to taste.” 

The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, 
And opened his eyes in wondrous haste, 

And then upon the floor he sprung ! 

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, 
Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, 
“ Nantucket’s sunk, and here we are 

Right over old Marm Hackett’s garden ! ” 


THE TEMPEST. 


W E were crowded in the cabin 

Not a soul would dare to sleep,— 
It was midnight on the waters 
And a storm was on the deep. 

’Tis a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered by the blast. 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, “ Cut away the mast! ” 

So we shuddered there in silence,— 

For the stoutest held his breath, 

While the hungry sea was roaring, 

And the breakers talked with Death. 


As thus we sat in darkness, 

Each one busy in his prayers, 

“ We are lost! ” the captain shouted 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 

As she took his icy hand, 

“ Isn’t God upon the ocean 
Just the same as on the land ? ” 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 
And we spoke in better cheer, 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 


ROVER’S PETITION. 

LAST POEM OF THE AUTHOR. 


^ TV' IND traveler, do not pass me by, 
J\ And thus a poor old dog forsake; 
But stop a moment on your way, 
And hear my woe, for pity’s sake! 

My name is Rover; yonder house 
Was once my home for many a year; 
My master loved me; every hand 
Caressed young Rover, far and near. 


‘ The children rode upon my back, 

And I could hear my praises sung; 

With joy I licked their pretty feet, 

As round my shaggy sides they clung. 

I watched them while they played or slept; 

I gave them all I had to give; 

My strength was theirs from morn till night ; 
For only them I cared to live. 







196 


JAMES THOMAS FIELDS. 


“Now I am old, and blind, and lame, 
They’ve turned me out to die alone, 
Without a shelter for my head, 

Without a scrap of bread or bone. 

“ This morning I can hardly crawl, 

While shivering in the snow and hail, 
My teeth are dropping one by one ; 

I scarce have strength to wag my tail; 

“ I’m palsied grown with mortal pains, 

My withered limbs are useless now; 
My voice is almost gone, you see, 

And I can hardly make my bow. 


“ Perhaps you’ll lead me to a shed 

Where I may find some friendly straw 
On which to lay my aching limbs, 

And rest my helpless broken paw. 

“ Stranger, excuse this story long, 

And pardon, pray, my last appeal; 
You’ve owned a dog yourself, perhaps, 

And learned that dogs, like men, can feel” 

Yes, poor old Rover, come with me; 

Food, with warm shelter. I’ll supply— 
And heaven forgive the cruel souls 

Who drove you forth to starve and die! - 


LAST WISHES OF A CHILD. 


L ( A LL the hedges are in bloom, 

J-\ And the warm west wind is blowing, 
Let me leave this stifled room— 

Let me go where flowers are growing. 

“ Look! my cheek is thin and pale, 

And my pulse is very low ; 

Ere my sight begins to fail, 

Mother dear, you’ll let me go ; 

“Was not that the robin’s song 

Piping through the casement wide ? 

I shall not be listening long— 

Take me to the meadow-side! 


“ Bear me to the willow-brook— 

Let me hear the merry mill— 

On the orchard I must look, 

Ere my beating heart is still. 

“ Faint and fainter grows my breath— 
Bear me quickly down the lane; 

Mother dear, this chill is death— 

I shall never speak again! ” 

Still the hedges are in bloom, 

And the warm west wind is blowing; 

Still we sit in silent gloom— 

O’er her grave the grass is growing. 


SLEIGHING-SONG. 


O H swift we go, o’er the fleecy snow, 
When moonbeams sparkle round ; 
When hoofs keep time to music’s chime. 
As merrily on we bound. 

On a winter’s night, when hearts are light, 
And health is on the wind, 

We loose the rein and sweep the plain, 

And leave our cares behind. 


With a laugh and song, we glide along 
Across the fleeting snow; 

With friends beside, how swift we ride 
On the beautiful track below! 

Oh, the raging sea has joy for me, 

When gale and tempests roar; 

But give me the speed of a foaming steed, 
And I’ll ask for the waves no more. 







John Bartholomew Gough. 

Renowned Lecturer and Orator. 


P JgONDERFUL dramatic power, great humor and pathos, were 
the distinguishing features of Mr. Gough’s unrivalled oratory, 
gs As forests are swayed by winds, so he moved the hearts of 
his audiences, at one time arousing his hearers to the highest 
pitch of enthusiasm, and again melting them to tears, or con¬ 
vulsing them with laughter. 

Mr. Gough was born at Sandgate, Kent, England, August 22, 1817. 
His father was a pensioner of the Peninsular war, his mother a village 
schoolmistress. When very young he came with his mother and sister 
to New York, and soon after this his mother died. He worked for a while 
on a farm in Oneida County, N. Y., and then went to New York City 
and learned the trade of a bookbinder. His habits of dissipation lost him 
his employment, and for a time he subsisted by giving recitations and 
singing comic songs at low grog shops. He was married in 1839; but 
his drunken habits reduced him to poverty and delirium tremens, and 
probably caused the death of his wife and child. 

He drifted to Worcester, Mass., and there one day while he was drunk 
in the gutter Joel Stratton, a name ever to be remembered, lifted him up, 
kindly cared for him, induced him to sign the temperance pledge, and 
saved to the world its most eloquent advocate of the cause of temperance. 
Resolving to devote the remainder of his life to the temperance work, he 
began lecturing, suddenly sprang into extraordinary popularity, lectured 
with great pathos, humor and earnestness in various parts of America, 
and drew immense audiences wherever he went. 

In 1853 he was engaged by the London Temperance League, and 
lectured for two years in the United Kingdom, where he attracted large 
crowds to his meetings. He was again in England in 1857-60 and 1878. 
It is said that he lectured more than one hundred times in Exeter Hall, 
London, and never failed of having a large audience. In some of his 
later addresses he took up literary and social topics, such as “ Low Life 
in London,’’ “ Here and There in Britain,” etc. 


197 



198 


JOHN BARTHOLOMEW GOUGH. 

Mr. Gough married for his second wife a most estimable lady whose 
Christian character and influence were his guiding star. He acquired a 
moderate fortune and built a fine country seat at Boylstown, Mass. 
While lecturing at Frankford, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, he was 
stricken with apoplexy and died February 18, 1886. He published an 
“Autobiography ” (1846); “Orations” (1854); “Temperance Address” 
(1870); “ Temperance Lectures ” (1879) 5 and “ Sunlight and Shadow, or 
Gleanings from my Lifework ” (1880). 


THE CAUSE OF 

O UR enterprise is in advance of the pub¬ 
lic sentiment, and those who carry it 
on are glorious iconoclasts, who are 
going to break down the drunken Dagon 
worshipped by their fathers. Count me over 
the chosen heroes of this earth, and I will 
show you men that stood alone—ay, alone, 
while those they toiled, and labored, and 
agonized for. hurled at them contumely, scorn, 
aud contempt. They stood alone; they looked 
into the future calmly and with faith; they 
saw the golden beam inclining to the side of 
perfect justice; and they fought on amidst the 
storm of persecution. 

In Great Britain they tell me when I go to 
see such a prison—“ There is such a dungeon 
in which such a one was confined; ” “ Here, 
among the ruins of an old castle we will show 
you where such a one had his ears cut off, 


TEMPERANCE. 

and where another was murdered.” Then 
they will show me monuments towering up to 
the heavens —“ There is a monument to such 
a one: there is a monument to another*” 

And what do I find ? That the one gen¬ 
eration persecuted and howled at these men, 
crying “Crucify them! crucify them!” and 
dancing around the blazing fagots that con¬ 
sumed them; and the next generation busied 
itself in gathering up the scattered ashes of 
the martyred heroes and depositing them in 
the golden urn of a nation’s history. Oh, yes! 
the men that fight for a great enterprise are 
the men that bear the brunt of the battle, and 
“He who seeth in secret”—seeth the desire 
of his children, their steady purpose, their firm 
self-denial—“ will reward them openly,” 
though they may die and see no sign of the 
triumphs of their enterprise. 


THE HERO OF LAKE ERIE. 


J OHN MAYNARD was well known in the 
Lake districts as a God-fearing, honest, 
and intelligent man. He was pilot on 
a steam-boat from Detroit to Buffalo. One 
summer afternoon—at that time those steam¬ 
ers seldom carried boats—smoke was seen 
ascending from below; and the captain called 
out, “Simpson, go below and see what the 
matter is down there.” 

Simpson came up with his face as pale as 
ashes, and said, Captain, the ship is on fire ! ” 
Then “ Fire! fire! fire ! ” on shipboard. 


All hands were called up ; buckets of water 
were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There 
were large quantities of rosin and tar on 
board, and it was found useless to attempt to 
save the ship. The passengers rushed for¬ 
ward and inquired of the pilot, “ How far are 
we from Buffalo ? ” 

“ Seven miles.” 

“ How long before we can reach there ? ” 

“ Three quarters of an hour at our present 
rate of steam.” 

“ Is there any danger ? ” 






JOHN BARTHOLOMEW GOUGH. 


199 


“ Danger ! Here, see the smoke bursting 
out!— go forward, if you would save your 
lives!" 

Passengers and crew—men, women, and 
children—crowded the forward part of the 
ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The 
flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of 
smoke arose. 

The captain cried out through his trumpet, 
“ John Maynard! ” 

“Ay, ay, sir! ” 

“Are you at the helm ? ” 

“Ay, ay, sir! ” 

“ How does she head ? ” 

“ South-east by east, sir.” 

“Head her south-east, and run her on 


shore,” said the captain. Nearer, nearer, yet 
nearer, she approached the shore. Again the 
captain cried out, “ John Maynard ! ” 

The response came feebly this time, “Ay, ay, 
sir! ” 

“Can you hold on five minutes longer, 
John? ” he said. 

“By God’s help, I will!” 

The old man’s hair was scorched from the 
scalp; one hand was disabled;—his knee 
upon the stanchion, his teeth set, his other 
hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. 
He beached the ship; everv man, woman and 
child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, 
and his spirit took its flight to God. 


THE POWER OP HABIT. 


I REMEMBER once riding from Buffalo 
to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gen¬ 
tleman, “ What river is that, sir?” 

“ That,” said he, “ is Niagara River,” 

“ Well, it is a beautiful stream,” said I; 
“ bright and fair and glassy. How far off are 
the rapids?” 

“ Only a mile or two,” was the reply. 

“ Is it possible that only a mile from us we 
shall find the water in the turbulence which 
it must show near the Falls ? ” 

“You will find it so, sir.” And so I found 
it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never 
forget. 

Now, launch your bark on that Niagara 
River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and 
glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the 
silver wake you leave behind adds to your 
enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, 
sails, and helm in proper trim, and you set 
out on your pleasure excursion. 

Suddenly some one cries out from the bank, 
“ Young men, ahoy! ” 

“ What is it?” 

“ The rapids are below you! ” 

“ Ha! ha! we have heard of the rapids; 
but we are not such fools as to get there. If 
we go too fast, then we shall up with the 
helm, and steer to the shore; we will set the 
mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed 


to the land. Then on, boys; don’t be alarmed, 
there is no danger.” 

“ Young men, ahoy, there! ” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ The rapids are below you ? ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! we will laugh and quaff; all 
things delight us. What care we for the 
future? No man ever saw it. Sufficient for 
the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy 
life while we may, will catch pleasure as it 
flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to 
steer out of danger when we are sailing 
swiftly with the current.” 

“ Young men, ahoy! ” 

“ What is it?” 

“Beware! beware! The rapids are below 
you! ” 

“ Now you see the water foaming all around. 
See how fast you pass that point! Up with 
the helm! Now turn! Pull hard! Quick! 
quick! quick! pull for your lives! pull till 
the blood starts from your nostrils, and the 
veins stand like whip cords upon your brow! 
Set the mast in the socket! hoist the sail! 
Ah! ah! it is too late! Shrieking, blas¬ 
pheming, over they go.” 

Thousands go over the rapids of intemper¬ 
ance every year, through the power of habit, 
crying all the while, “When I find out that 
it is injuring me, I will give it up!” 







Harriet Beecher Stowe. 

Author of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin. 


ARRIET ELIZABETH BEECHER, daughter of Rev. Lyman 
Beecher, D.D., an eminent theologian and father of a remark¬ 
able family, was born at Litchfield, Conn., June 14, 1812. She 
was educated at her sister Catherine’s school, in Hartford, 
until fifteen years of age, when she assisted in teaching until 
her twentieth year, and then removed to Cincinnati, O., with 
her father, in the autumn of 1832. In 1836, she married Rev. Calvin K. 
Stowe, Professor of Languages and Biblical Literature in Lane Theologi¬ 
cal Seminary. 

Her first publication was the story of 11 Uncle Lot,” printed in Judge 
Hall’s monthly magazine at Cincinnati, in 1833, and from this time she 
became a frequent and popular writer in the various periodicals in the 
country. In 1849 a collection of her pieces was published by the Harpers, 
entitled the “ May Flower,” which was much enlarged in new editions 
published in 1855, and in 1866; a collection of tales and essays hardly 
equalled for ease and naturalness of description, touching narrative, and 
elevating moral tone. 

Having removed in 1850, with her husband, to Brunswick, Maine, 
where Mr. Stowe entered upon his duties as Professor in Bowdoin Col¬ 
lege, she wrote the most celebrated of all her works, and, indeed, the 
most successful story ever issued in America, “ Uncle Tom’s Cabin, or 
Life among the Lowly.” It was first published as a serial weekly story 
in the “National Era” in Washington. Its success was instant and 
phenomenal. 

During the year 1850 the Fugitive Slave Law had been passed by 
Congress, which provided that all owners of slaves should be allowed to 
enter free territory to capture them when they had escaped. The passage 
of this law created great agitation throughout the country and the slavery 
question was the most prominent issue in politics. The way was there¬ 
fore prepared for such a story as “Uncle Tom’s Cabin;” the public 
200 




HARRIET BEECHER STOWE- 


201 


mind was alert and ready for the vivid descriptions, both humorous and 
pathetic, which Mrs. Stowe wove into her novel. People stayed awake 
nights to read it, and there were those who were not unwilling to admit 
that they wept over its pathetic passages. 

The sale of the work surpassed anything ever known at that time. 
It would be difficult to say how many hundreds of thousands of copies 
have been distributed. As many must have been sold in the British 
dominions as in the United States. It has been translated into all the 
principal European, and into several Asiatic, languages, including the 
Chinese and Japanese. Two different translations of it have been made 
into Russian and more than a dozen into the German language. 

In 1853 Mrs. Stowe visited England and the European continent. 
She was everywhere received with the greatest acclaim, and titled people, 
as well as others, united in expressions of appreciation of her work and 
rendered her conspicuous public honors. On her return she published 
“ Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands,” in which she gave a pleasant 
account of her journey abroad, but made no attempt to produce a work 
of critical value. 

In 1855 she published “ Dred, a Tale of the Dismal Swamp,” and 
reprinted it in 1866, under the title of “Nina Gordon.” It sold to the 
extent of 100,000 copies in two months, and 150,000 copies to August, 
1857. Though not equal to “ Uncle Tom’s Cabin ” in the unity of the 
plot, in the simplicity of the story, in deep pathos, or in the absorbing 
interest it excites in the several characters, it contains many passages of 
powerful and beautiful writing, and is in advance of its great prototype 
in the withering scorn and indignant sarcasm with which it holds up 
before the world that sham religion that puts “ sacrifice ” before “ mercy” 
and substitutes mere church-going and outward observances for practical 
righteousness. It was reprinted in German, French, and several other 
languages. 

In the “Atlantic Monthly,” for December, 1858, Mrs. Stowe com¬ 
menced the publication of “ The Minister’s Wooing,” which was issued 
in book form in October, 1859, a tale, of which 30,000 were sold in six 
months. Followed in 1862, by the “ Pearl of Orr’s Island,” a story of 
singular pathos and beauty, in her best style; and “Agnes of Sorrento,” 
a story containing many passages of graceful or picturesque description. 

In 1863, “ Many Thousand Women of Great Britain ” issued a 
“ Christian Address ” to their sisters in America, about the Civil War, 


202 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


showing a lamentable misunderstanding of the true situation, but which 
Mrs. Stowe very properly and ably answered iu her “ Reply on behalf of 
the Women of America.” 

In 1869 appeared “ Oldtown Folks,” presenting, among other things, 
a masterly picture of the phases of religious thought and feeling in New 
England during the preceding century. Unfortunately she was drawn 
into a controversy, in 1868, occasioned by the publication of a work en¬ 
titled, “ My Recollections of Lord Byron, and those of Eye-Witnesses of 
His Life.” This was issued without a name, but was supposed to have 
been written by the Countess Guiccioli, which contained severe reflections 
on the character of the Lady Byron. Partly in reply to these, Mrs. Stowe 
wrote the “True Story of Lord Byron’s Life,” published in 1869 in the 
“Atlantic Monthly.” This was severely criticised in American and 
European journals. 

Among Mrs. Stowe’s later books are “ Pink and White Tyranny,” 
issued in 1871; “ My Wife and I,” in 1882 ; “ Palmetto Leaves,” in 1873; 
“ Betty’s Bright Idea,” 1876, and “ Footprints of the Master,” 1877. For 
many years Mrs. Stowe resided in Hartford in the centre of one of the 
most cultured literary circles of our country. She died July 1st, 1896. 


EVA’S DEATH. 

FROM “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.” 


E VA, after this, declined rapidly: there 
was no more any doubt of the event; 
the fondest hope could not be blinded. 
Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick¬ 
room, and Miss Ophelia, day and night, per¬ 
formed the duties of a nurse, and never did 
her friends appreciate her value more than in 
that capacity. With so well-trained a hand 
and eye, such perfect adroitm ss and practice 
in every art which could promote neatness 
and comfort and keep out of sight every dis¬ 
agreeable incident of sickness— with such a 
perfect sense of time, such a clear, untrou¬ 
bled head, such exact accuracy in remember¬ 
ing every prescription and direction of the 
doctors—she was everything to St Clare. 
They who had shrugged their shoulders at the 
little peculiarities and setnesses—so unlike the 
careless freedom of Southern manners—ac¬ 
knowledged that now she was the exact person 
that was wanted. 


Uncle Tom was much in Eva’s room. The 
child suffered much from nervous restlessness, 
and it was a relief to her to be carried; and 
it was Tom’s greatest delight to carry her 
little frail form in his arms, resting on a pil¬ 
low, now up and down her room, now out into 
the veranda; and when the fresh sea-breezes 
blew from the lake— and the child felt freshest 
iu the morning — he would sometimes walk with 
her under the orange-trees in the garden, or 
sitting down in some of their old seats, sing to 
her their favorite old hymns. 

Her father often did the same thing; but 
his frame was slighter, and when he was 
weary, Eva would say to him— 

“ Oh, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! 
it pleases him ; and you know it’s all he can 
do now, and he wants to do something! ” 

“ So do I, Eva! ” said her father. 

“ Well, papa, you can do everything, and 
are everything to me. You read to me—you 





HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


203 


sit up nights; and Tom has only this one 
tiling, and his singing ; and I know, too, he 
does it easier than you can. He carries me 
so strong! ” 

The desire to do something was not confined 
to Tom. Every servant in the establishment 
showed the same feeling, and in their way did 
what they could. But the friend who knew 
most of Eva’s own imaginings and fore¬ 
shadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To 
him she said what she would not disturb her 
father by saying. To him she imparted those 
mysterious intimations which the soul feels as 
the cords begin to unbind ere it leaves its clay 
forever. 

Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, 
but lay all night in the outer veranda, ready 
to rouse at every call. 

“ Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to 
sleeping anywhere and everywhere, like a dog, 
for?” said Miss Ophelia. “I thought you 
was one of the orderly sort that liked to lie in 
bed in a Christian way.” 

“ I do, Miss Feely, said Tom, mysteriously. 
“ I do; but now—” 

“ Well, what now ? ” 

“We mustn’t speak loud ; Mas’r St. Clare 
won’t hear on’t. But Miss Feely, you know 
there must be somebody watchin’ for the 
bridegroom.” 

“ What do you mean, Tom ? ” 

“You know it says in Scripture, ‘At mid¬ 
night there was a great cry made. Behold, 
the bridegroom cometh.’ That’s what I’m 
spectin’ now every night, Miss Feely, and I 
couldn’t sleep out o’ hearin’, no ways.” 

“ Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think 
so?” 

“Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, 
he sends his messenger in the soul. I must 
be thar. Miss Feely; for when that ar blessed 
child goes into the kingdom, they’ll open the 
door so wide we’ll get a look in at the glory, 
Miss Feely.” 

“ Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt 
more unwell than usual to-night ? ” 

“ No; but she telled me this morning she 
was cornin’ nearer. Thar’s them that tells it 
to the child, Miss Feely. It’s the angels; ‘ it’s 
the trumpet sound afore the break o’ day,’ ” 
said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn. 


This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia 
and Tom between len and eleven one evening, 
alter her arrangements had all been made for 
the night, when, on going to bolt her outer 
door, she found Tom stretched along by it in 
the outer veranda. 

She was not nervous or impressible, but the 
solemn, heartfelt manner snick her. Eva 
had been unusually bright and cheerful that 
afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed and 
looked over all her little trinkets and precious 
things and designated the friends to whom 
she would have them given, and her manner 
was more animated and her voice more natural 
than they had known it for weeks. Her 
father had been in in the evening and had 
said that Eva appeared more like her former 
self than ever she had done since her sick¬ 
ness ; and when he kissed her for the night he 
said to Miss Ophelia, “Cousin, we may keep 
her with us after all; she is certainly 
better:” and he had retired with a lighter 
heart in his bosom than he had had there for 
weeks. 

But at miduight—strange, mystic hour! 
when the veil between the frail present and 
the eternal future grows thin—then came the 
messenger. 

There was a sound in that chamber, first of 
one who stepped quickly. It was Miss 
Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all night 
with her little charge, and who at the turn of 
the night had discerned what experienced 
nurses significantly call “a change.” The 
outer door was quickly opened, and Tom, 
who was watching outside, was on the alert in 
a moment. 

“Go for the doctor, Tom. Lose not a 
moment,” said Miss Ophelia; and stepping 
across the room she rapped at St. Clare’s door. 

“Cousin,” she said, “I wish you would 
come.” 

Those words fell on his heart like clods upon 
a coffin. Why did they ? He was up and in 
the room in an instant and bending over Eva 
who still slept. 

What was it he saw that made his heart 
stand still? Why was no word spoken be¬ 
tween the two? Thou canst say who hast 
seen that same expression on the face dearest 
to thee—that look indescribable, hopeless, un- 




204 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


mistakable, that says to thee that thy beloved 
is no longer thine. 

On the face of the child, however, there 
was no ghastly imprint—only a high and 
almost sublime expression, the overshadowing 
presence of spiritual natures, the dawning of 
immortal life in that childish soul. 

They stood there so still, gazing upon her, 
that even the ticking of the watch seemed 
too loud. In a few moments Tom returned 
with the doctor. He entered, gave one look, 
and stood silent as the rest. 

“When did this change take place? ” said 
he, in a low whisper to Miss Ophelia. 

“About the turn of the night,” was the 
reply. 

Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, 
appeared hurriedly from the next room. 
“Augustine! Cousin ! Oh, what! ” she hur¬ 
riedly began. 

“Husb ! ” said St. Clare, hoarsely ; “ she is 
dying ! ” 

Mammy heard the words and flew to 
awaken the servants. The house was soon 
roused. Lights were seen, footsteps heard, 
anxious faces thronged the veranda and 
looked tearfully through the glass doors, but 
St. Clare heard and said nothing. He saw 
only that look on the face of the little sleeper. 

“Oh, if she would only wake and speak 
once more!” he said; and stooping over her 
he spoke in her ear, “ Eva, darling.” 

The large blue eyes unclosed ; a smile passed 
over her face; she tried to raise her head and 
speak. 

“Do you know me, Eva?” 

“ Dear papa,” said the child with a last 
effort, throwing her arms about his neck. In 


a moment they dropped again, and as St. Clare 
raised his head he saw a spasm of mortal 
agony pass over the face; she struggled for 
breath and threw up her little hands. 

“O God, this is dreadful!” he said, turn¬ 
ing away in agony and wringing Tom’s haud, 
scarce conscious what he was doing. “Oh, 
Tom, my boy, it is killing me! ” 

Tom had his master’s hands between his 
own, and, with tears streaming down his dark 
cheeks, looked up for help where he had 
always been used to look. 

“Pray that this may be cut short,” said St. 
Clare. “ This wrings my heart! ” 

“ Oh, bless the Lord! it’s over, it’s over, 
dear master,” said Tom ; “look at her.” 

The child lay panting on her pillows as one 
exhausted, the large, clear eyes rolled up and 
fixed. Ah, what said those eyes that spoke 
so much of heaven? Earth was past, ai d 
earthly pain; but so solemn, so mysterious 
was the triumphant brightness of that face 
that it checked even the sobs of sorrow. They 
pressed around her in breathless stillness. 

“ Eva,” said St. Clare, gently. She did not 
hear. 

“ Oh, Eva, tell us what you see. What is 
it ? ” said her father. 

A bright, a glorious smile passed over her 
face, and she said brokenly, “ Oh, love, joy, 
peace! ” gave one sigh, and passed from death 
unto life. 

Farewell, beloved child. The bright, eter¬ 
nal doors have closed after thee; we shall see 
thy sweet face no more. Oh, woe for them who 
watched thy entrance into heaven when they 
shall wake and find only the cold, gray sky 
of daily life, and thou gone forever! 


“ONLY A YEAR.” 


O NE year ago,—a ringing voice, 

A clear blue eye, 

And clustering curls of sunny hair ; 
Too fair to die. 

Only a year—no voice, no smile, 

No glance of eye, 

No clustering curls of golden hair, 

Fair but to die! 


One year ago—what loves, what schemes 
Far into life! 

What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 
What generous strife! 

The silent picture on the wall, 

The burial-stone 

Of all that beauty, life, and joy, 

Remain alone! 






HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


205 


One year,—one year, one little year, 

And so much gone! 

And yet the even flow of life 
Moves calmly on. 

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair 
Above that head ; 

No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 
Says he is dead. 

No pause or hush of merry birds 
That sing above, 

Tell us how coldly sleeps below 
The form we love. 

Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? 
What hast thou seen, — 


What visions fair, what glorious life, 
Where thou hast been ? 

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong 
’Twixt us and thee; 

The mystic veil, when shall it fall, 
That we may see ? 

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, 
But present still, 

And waiting for the coming hour 
Of God’s sweet will. 

Lord of the living and the dead. 

Our Saviour dear! 

We lay in silence at thy feet 
This sad, sad year. 


LINES TO THE MEMORY OF “ANNIE.” 

WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860. 


N the fair gardens of celestial peace 

Walketh a gardener in meekness clad ; 
Fair are the flowers that wreathed his 
dewy locks, 

And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. 

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, 
Falling with saintly calmness to his feet ; 
And when he walks, each floweret to his will 
With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat. 

Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart, 

In the mild summer radiance of his eye; 
No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost, 
Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh 

And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love 
Are nurseries to those gardens of the air ; 
And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, 
Watching the growing of his treasures there. 

We call them ours, o’erwept with selfish tears, 
O’erwatched with restless longings night and 
day; 

Forgetful of the high, mysterious right 

He holds to bear our cherished plants away. 


But when some sunny spot in those bright fields 
Needs the fair presence of an added flower, 
Down sweeps a starry angel in the night: 

At morn the rose has vanished from our 
bower. 

Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a 
grave! 

Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above, 
Like a new star outblossomed in the skies, 
The angels hail an added flower of love. 

Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, 
Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, 
Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye 
Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief. 

Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast 
Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, 
That the bleak climate of this lower sphere 
Could never waken into form and light. 

Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, 
Nor must thou ask to take her thence away; 
Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour, 
Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day. 





Alice and Phoebe Cary. 

Kindred by Birth and Poesy. 


ONG the authors whose writings appeal to the best instincts of 
the reader and afford enjoyment by their unaffected style, easy 
expression, sympathetic quality and elevating tone, the Cary 
sisters are eminent. Without superior advantages, they became 
noted, and by their native gifts made valuable additions to 
American literature. 

Alice Cary first came into notice by her contributions to the 
“ National Era,” for which she wrote under the nom de plume of “ Patty 
Lee.” Her “ Clovernook,” comprising sketches of western life, was pop¬ 
ular both in America and England. Several works of fiction, and various 
poems, have also met with marked favor. Born near Cincinnati, Ohio, in 
1820, she resided during the latter part of her life in New York and died 
there in 1871. She was also gifted in the portrayal of domestic scenes 
and the charms of country life. 

The writings of the Cary sisters have long been familiar to the 
American people, their moral tone, felicitous expression and elevated sen¬ 
timent having given them wide popularity. From their gifted pens have 
come several hymns that have gained a high degree of favor. It is 
rarely that two members of the same family exhibit so high an order of 
genius. 

Phoebe Cary was the youngest sister of Alice and equally gifted. 
Her birthplace was the Miami Valley, where she was born in 1824 5 her 
death occurred in 1871. She published independently several volumes of 
buoyant, pleasant verse and contributed a third of the “ Poems of Alice and 
Phoebe Cary,” published in Philadelphia in 1850. During the later years 
of their life the Cary sisters resided in New York, were actively engaged 
in religious work, and were greatly beloved by a large circle of friends. 
Phoebe Cary died in 1871, six months after the death of her sister 
Alice. 

206 






207 


ALICE AND PHCKBE CARY. 

MAKE BELIEVE. 


ISS me, though you make believe; 

Kiss me, though I almost know 
You are kissing to deceive: 

Let the tide one moment flow 
Backward ere it rise and break, 
Only for poor pity’s sake! 

Give me of your flowers one leaf, 
Give me of your smiles one smile, 
Backward roll this tide of grief 
Just a moment, though, the while, 


I should feel and almost know 
You are trifling with my woe. 

Whisper to me sweet and low; 

Tell me how you sit and weave 
Dreams about me, though I know 
It is only make believe! 

Just a moment, though ’tis plain 
You are jesting with my pain. 

Alice Cary 


A SPINSTER’S STINT. 


S IX skeins and three, six skeins and three! 
Good mother, so you stinted me, 

And here they be,—ay, six and three! 

Stop, busy wheel! stop, noisy wheel! 

Long shadows down my chamber steal, 
And warn me to make haste and reel. 

’T is done,—the spinning work complete, 

O heart of mine, what makes you beat 
So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet. 

I must have wheat and pinks, to stick 
My hat from brim to ribbon, thick,— 

Slow hands of mine, be quick, be quick! 


| One, two, three stars along the skies 
Begin to wink their golden eyes,— 

I’ll leave my thread all knots and ties. 

O moon, so red! O moon, so red ! 
Sweetheart of night, go straight to bed ; 
Love’s light will answer in your stead. 

A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he stands,— 
Stop trembling, little foolish hands, 

And stop the bands, and stop the bands! 

Alice Cary. 


A DYING HYMN. 

The last stanza composed by Alice Cary, was written on her death-bed, with trembling 
hand, the pen falling from her fingers as the chill of death was stealing over her. The stanza 
was this: 

“ As the poor panting hart to the water-brook runs— 

As the water-brook runs to the sea— 

So earth’s fainting daughters and famishing sons, 

Oh, fountain of love, run to Thee.” 


Then, with her last breath, she repeated the following, written some years before, as if 
prophetic of her last hour: 


E ARTH with its dark and dreadful ills 
Recedes, and fades away ; 

Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills! 
Ye gates of death, give way! 

My soul is full of whispered song; 

My blindness is my sight; 


The shadows that I feared so long, 
Are all alive with light. 

The while my pulses faintly beat. 
My faith doth so abound, 

I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
The green immortal ground. 







208 


ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 


That faith to me a courage gives 
Low as the grave to go ; 

I know that my Redeemer lives; 
That I shall live I know. 


The palace walls I almost see, 

Where dwells my Lord and King; 
Oh, grave, where is thy victory ? 

Oh, death, where is thy sting ? 

Alice Cary. 


PICTURES OF MEMORY. 


A MONG the beautiful pictures 
That hang on Memory’s wall 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemoth best of all; 

Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe; 

Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 

Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant ledge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 
And stealing their golden edge ; 

Not for the vines on the upland, 

Where the bright red berries rest, 

Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, 
It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep ; 

In the lap of that old dim forest 
He lieth in peace asleep: 


Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 

We roved there the beautiful summers, 
The summers of long ago; 

But his feet on the hills grew weary, 

And, one of the autumn eves, 

I made for my little brother 
A bed of the yellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 
My neck in a meek embrace, 

As the light of immortal beauty 
Silently covered his face; 

And when the arrows of sunset 
Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 

He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 

Therefore, of all the pictures 
That hang on Memory’s wall, 

The one of the dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all. 

Alice Cary. 


SUPPOSE. 


S UPPOSE, my little lady, 

Your doll should break her head, 
Could you make it whole by crying 
Till your nose and eyes were red ? 
And wouldn’t it be pleasanter 
To treat it as a joke, 

And say you’re glad ’twas dolly’s, 

And not your own head that’s broke ? 

Suppose you’re dressed for walking 
And the rain comes pouring down, 
Will it clear off any sooner 
Because you scold and frown ? 

And wouldn’t it be nicer 
For you to smile than pout, 

And so make sunshine in the house 
When there is none without ? 


Suppose your task, my little man, 

Is very hard to get, 

Will it make it any easier 
For you to sit and fret? 

And wouldn’t it be wiser 
Than waiting like a dunce, 

To go to work in earnest 

And learn the thing at once? 

Suppose that some boys have a horse, 
And some a coach and pair, 

Will it tire you less while walking 
To say, “It isn’t fair? ” 

And wouldn’t it be nobler 
To keep your temper sweet, 

And in your heart be thankful 
You can walk upon your feet? 







ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 


209 


Suppose the world doesn’t please you, 
Nor the way some people do,— 

Do you think the whole creation 
Will be altered just for you? 


And isn’t it, my boy or girl, 

The wisest, bravest plan, 

Whatever comes or doesn’t come 
To do the best you can ? 

Phcebe Cary. 


GONE BEFORE. 


F still they kept their earthly place, 

The friends I held in my embrace, 

And gave to death, alas! 

Could I have learned that clear, calm faith 
That looks beyond the bounds of death, 
And almost longs to pass? 

Sometimes I think, the things we see 
Are shadows of the things to be; 

That what we plan we build ; 

That every hope that hath been crossed, 
And every dream we thought was lost, 

In heaven shall be fulfilled ; 


That even the children of the brain 
Have not been born and died in vain, 
Though here unclothed and dumb! 

But on some brighter, better shore, 

They live, embodied evermore, 

And wait for us to come. 

And when on that last day we rise, 

Caught up between the earth and skies, 
Then shall we hear our Lord 
Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death, 
Henceforth, according to thy faith, 

Shall be thy faith’s reward. 

Phcebe Cary. 


THE CHICKEN’S MISTAKE. 


A LITTLE downy chick one day 
Asked leave to go on the water, 

Where she saw a duck with her brood at 
play 

Swimming and splashing about her. 

Indeed, she began to peep and cry, 

When her mother wouldn’t let her, 

“ If the ducks can swim, then why can’t I? 
Are they any bigger or better ? ” 

Then the old hen answered, “ Listen to me, 
And hush your foolish talking ; 

Just look at your feet, and then you will see 
They were only made for walking.” 

But chicky wistfully eyed the brook, 

And didn’t half believe her; 

For she seemed to say, by a knowing look, 
Such stories couldn’t deceive her. 

And as her mother was scratching the ground, 
She muttered lower and lower, 


“ I know I can go there and not be drowned, 
And so I think I’ll show her.” 

Then she made a plunge where the stream was 
deep, 

And saw too late her blunder; 

For she had hardly time to peep 
When her foolish head went under. 

And now I hope her fate will show 
That child my story reading, 

That those who are older sometimes know 
What you will do well in heeding : 

That each content in his place should dwell, 
And envy not his brother, 

For any part that is acted well 
Is just as good as another; 

For we all have our proper spheres below, 
And this is a truth worth knowing: 

You will come to grief if you try to go 
Where you never were made for going. 

Phcebe Cary. 


14 







James Whitcomb Riley. 

“ The Hoosier Poet.” 


NEW generation of writers has come forward, with character¬ 
istics widely different from those of their predecessors in the 
field of literature. Their writings are more distinctively 
American—perhaps it would be more appropriate to say, West- 
American. There is a breeziness about them—an off-hand 
dash—a disregard of conventionalities which we do not discover 
among such men as Irving, Bryant, Longfellow and others, who may be 
said to have created our literature and stamped it with their genius. 

Both fiction and poetry have taken on what may be called a new 
style. The aim to entertain, to present the humorous side of things, to 
make a quick, even though superficial impression, is very apparent. It 
would be unjust, however, to deny unusual merit to the new class of 
authors. They are splendidly endowed. To brilliant native talent 
many of them add great industry, a profound knowledge of human 
nature, and are able to discern what is demanded by the popular taste. 
They simply write as the time and the people require that they should. 
While the writer helps to form national character, it is also true that the 
national character helps to form him. 

James Whitcomb Riley has been given the title of the “ Hoosier 
Poet of America.” This is partly owing to the State in which he had his 
birth and where he has always resided. He was born in Greenfield, 
Indiana, in 1852. In his boyhood he often accompanied his father, who 
was an attorney, as he went from place to place transacting his business, 
and thus early came into contact with the world, which has so much to do 
with the education and development of the young mind. At an early age 
he left home to follow the calling of a wandering sign-writer. 

For a time he was connected with a theatrical troupe, and showed 
some aptitude for revising and adapting plays. He also began to show a 
talent for song-writing and improvising lines on the spur of the moment, 
thus indicating that he had a ready wit, and not merely the kind which 
is studied up and manufactured for the occasion. 

210 




JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


211 


Over the name of “ Benjamin F. Johnson, of Boone,” he began, about 
the year 1875, to contribute verses in the Hoosier dialect to the Indian¬ 
apolis papers. These attracted considerable attention, suggesting an 
interesting field of literature, which he resolved, sooner or later, to occupy. 
It was evident that dialect poems were relished by the public, and as these 
were written upon subjects near at hand, and such as appealed to the 
popular heart, Mr. Riley found himself growing in favor, and from that 
day has continued in active literary work. 

He is gifted in the art of imitation, which was shown by his writing 
a piece after the style of Edgar Allen Poe that was accepted by many 
critics as the work of that author. Such a feat as this required something 
more than ordinary talent. In addition to many dialect pieces, he has 
published poems of a more serious character, proving that he possesses 
ability for the graver as well as the lighter strains of thought and 
feeling. 

He has issued a number of volumes, including “ The Old Swimmin’ 
Hole,” “Afterwhiles,” “ Neighborly Poems,” “ Pipes o’ Pan,” Green 
Fields and Running Brooks,” “ Rhymes of Childhood,’’ “ The Flying 
Islands of the Night,” and others. His works abound in pictures of 
Western life, and around the most commonplace objects he throws a 
peculiar charm. Like the ballads of Carlton, many of his songs deal 
with the farm, the old homestead, the old arm-chair, the boys who whistle 
and shout and play, and the old people whose eyes are already growing 
dim and whose forms are bending toward the grave. While his writings 
are intended to engage the attention of the reader and furnish entertain¬ 
ment, they are nearly always pointed with a moral, and there is some¬ 
thing worth storing in the memory. 

No one could form an accurate estimate of Mr. Riley’s writings and 
leave out what may be called the human element that is always promi¬ 
nent. There is no attempt to reach the towering heights of the English 
poets of earlier times. No stately measures of verse appeal to the most 
cultivated mind and arouse the admiration always accorded to genius. 
There is, however, a genius less commanding and imposing. Mr. Riley 
descends into the common walks of life, and makes himself at home with 
ordinary people. His language is so simple, his meaning is so clearly 
comprehended, there is such an evident comprehension of everyday life, 
that not as a stranger, but as a friend, does he step into the home. He is 
much sought after as a lecturer and reader of his own productions. 


212 


JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

Much of Mr. Riley’s popularity is undoubtedly due to the dialect 
noticeable everywhere in his work. Often the same thought clothed in 
different phraseology would be comparatively tame, but by the dialect 
used it takes on a different complexion, and comes home to the reader 
with much greater force. For a time he failed to obtain any emphatic 
recognition, but having beeu complimented by Longfellow and Lowell on 
some verses he sent to them, he at once sprang into popularity. 


LEONAINIE. 

The following is the poem written in early life by Mr. Riley, which so successfully imitated 
the style of Edgar A. Poe as to deceive Poe’s biographers and led them to attribute it to the 
gifted author of “ The Raven.” 


L EONAINIE—Angels named her; 

And they took the light 
Of the laughing stars and framed her 
In a smile of white; 

And they made her hair of gloomy 
Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy 
Moonshine, and they brought her to me 
In the solemn night. 

In a solemn night of summer, 

When my heart of gloom 
Blossomed up to greet the comer 
Like a rose in bloom ; 

All forbodings that distressed me 
I forgot as Joy caressed me— 

(Lying Joy! that caught and pressed me 
In the arms of doom!) 


Only spake the little lisper 
In the Angel-tongue; 

Yet I, listening, heard her whisper— 

“ Songs are only sung 

Here below that they may grieve you— 
Tales but told you to deceive you— 

So must Leonainie leave you 
While her love is young.” 

Then God smiled and it was morning. 

Matchless and supreme, 

Heaven’s glory seemed adorning 
Earth with its esteem : 

Every heart but mine seemed gifted 
With the voice of prayer, and lifted 
Where my Leonainie drifted 
From me like a dream. 


DECORATION DAY. 


I T’s lonesome—sorto’ lonesome—it’s a Sun- 
d’y day to me, 

It ’pears like—mor’n any day I nearly 
ever see! 

Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flut¬ 
terin’ in the air, 

On ev’ry soldier’s grave I’d love to lay a lily 
there. 

They say, though, Decoration Days is gener¬ 
ally observed— 

Most ev’ry wheres—especially by soldier boys 
that served— 


But me and mother never went—we seldom 
git away— 

In pint of fact, we’re alius home on Decoration 
Day. 

They say the old boys marches through the 
streets in columns grand, 

A-follerin’ the old war tunes they’re playin’ on 
the band, 

And citizens all jinin’ in—and little children, 
too— 

All marchin’ under shelter of the old Red, 
White and Blue, 






JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


218 


With roses! roses! roses! — ev’rybody in the 
town! 

And crowds of girls in white, just fairly loaded 
down! 

Oh! don’t the boys know it, from their camp 
across the hill ? 

Don’t they see their comrades cornin’ and the 
old flag wavin’ still ? 

Oh ! can’t they hear the bugle and the rattle 
of the drum ?— 

Ain’t they no way under heaven they can 
rickollect us some ? 

Ain’t they no way we can coax ’em through 
the roses, just to say 

They know that every day on earth is their 
Decoration Day ? 


We’ve tried that—me and mother—where 
Elias takes his rest, 

In the orchard, in his uniform, and hands 
across his breast, 

And the flag he died fer smilin’ and a-rippliu’ 
in the breeze 

Above his grave—and, over that—the robin 
in the trees. 

And yet it’s lonesome—lonesome! It’s a Sun- 
d’y-day to me, 

It ’pears like—more’n any day—I nearly ever 
see— 

Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flut¬ 
terin’ in the air, 

On ev’ry soldier’s grave—I’d love to lay a lily 
there. 


SOME DAY. 


S OME day—so many tearful eyes 

Are watching for the dawning light! 
So many faces toward the skies 
Are weary of the night! 

So many falling prayers that reel 

And stagger upward through the storm.; 
And yearning hands that reach and feel 
No pressure true and warm! 

So many hearts whose crimson wine 
Is wasted to a purple stain; 


And blurred and streaked with drops of brine 
Upon the lips of pain! 

O come to them—those weary ones! 

Or, if thou still must bide a while, 

Make stronger yet the hope that runs 
Before thy coming smile. 

And haste and find them where they wait, 
Let summer winds blow down that way, 
And all they long for, soon or late, 

Bring round to them—some day. 


A MAN BY THE NAME OF BOLUS. 


A M AN by the name of Bolus—(all ’ at we’ll 
ever know 

Of the stranger’s name, I reckon—and 
I’m kind o’ glad it’s so !) 

Got off here Christmas morning—looked round 
the town, and then 

Kind o’ sized up the folks, I guess, and— 
went away again! 

The fact is, this man Bolus got “ run in ’ ’ 
Christmas day; 

The town turned out to see it, and cheered, 
and blocked the way! 


And they dragged him ’fore the Mayor—fer 
he couldn’t er wouldn’t walk— 

And socked him down fer trial—though he 
couldn’t or wouldn’t talk! 

Drunk ?—they was no doubt of it! W’y, the 
Marshal of the town 

Laughed and testified ’at he fell up stairs 
’stid of down! 

This man by the name of Bolus ? W’y, he 
even drapped his jaw. 

And snored on through his “ hearin’ ” drunk 
as you ever saw! 







214 


JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


One fellar spit in his bootleg, and another’n 
drapped a small 

Little chunk of ice down his collar—but he 
didn’t wake at all! 

And they all nearly split when His Honor 
said, in one of his witty ways, 

To “ chalk it down for him ‘ Called away—be 
back in thirty days!’ ” 

That’s where this man named Bolus slid, kind 
o’ like in a fit, 

Flat on the floor—and drat my ears! I hear 
’em a-laughin’ yit! 

Somebody fetched Doc Sifers from jest acrost 
the hall— 

And all Doc says was, “ Morphine 1 We’re 
too late! ” and that’s all! 


That’s how they found his name out—piece of 
a letter ’at read : 

“ Your wife has lost her reason, and little 
Nathan’s dead— 

Come ef you kin—forgive her—but Bolus, as 
fer me, 

This hour I send a bullet through where my 
heart ort to be! ” 

Man by the name o’ Bolus! As his revilers 
broke 

Fer the open air, peared like to me, I heerd a 
voice’t spoke, 

Man by the name of Bolus! git up from where 
you lay— 

Git up and smile white at ’em, with your hands 
crossed that away! 


A DREAM. 


O 


IT was but a dream I had 

While the musicians played— 
And here the sky and here the glad 
Old ocean kissed the glade ; 

And here the laughing ripples ran, 

And here the roses grew 
That threw a kiss to every man 
That voyaged with the crew. 


And it was dawn and middle day 
And midnight—for the moon 
On silver rounds across the bay 
Had climbed the skies of June— 
And here the glowing, glorious king 
Of day ruled o’er the realm, 

With stars of midnight glittering 
About the diadem. 


Our silken sails in lazy folds 
Dropped in the breathless breeze 
As o’er a field of marigolds 
Our eyes swam o’er the seas; 

While here the eddies lisped and purled 
Around the island’s rim, 

And up from out the under world 
We saw the merman swim. 


The sea-gull reeled on languid wing 
In circles round the mast; 

We heard the songs the sirens sing 
As we went sailing past, 

And up and down the golden sands 
A thousand fairy throngs 
Flung at us from their flashing hand 
The echoes of their songs. 





James Kirke Paulding. 

Author of “ Salmagundi/’ 



R. PAULDING is known by his numerous novels and other 
prose writings, much better than by his poetry; yet his early 
contributions to our poetical literature, if they do not bear 
witness that he possesses, in an eminent degree, “ the 
vision and the faculty divine,” are creditable for their patriotic 
spirit and moral purity. He was born in the town of Pauling 
—the original mode of spelling his name—in Duchess county, New York, 
on the 22d of August, 1779, and was descended from an old and honorable 
family, of Dutch extraction. 

His earliest literary productions were the papers entitled “ Salma¬ 
gundi,” the first series of which, in two volumes, were written in conjunc¬ 
tion with Washington Irving, in 1807. These were succeeded, in the next 
thirty years, by the following works, in the order in which they are 
named: “John Bull and Brother Jonathan,” in one volume; “The Lay 
of a Scotch Fiddle,” a satirical poem, in one volume; “ The United States 
and England,” in one volume; “ Second Series of Salmagundi,” in two 
volumes; “Letters from the South,” in two volumes ; “The Backwoods¬ 
man,” a poem, in one volume; “ Koningsmarke, or Old Times in the 
New World,” a novel, in two volumes; “John Bull in America,” in one 
volume; “ Merry Tales of the Wise Men of Gotham,” in one volume; “ The 
Traveller’s Guide, or New Pilgrim’s Progress,” in one volume; “ The 
Dutchman’s Fireside,” in two volumes ; “ Westward Ho!” in two volumes ; 
“ Slavery in the United States,” in one volume; “ Life of Washington,” in 
two volumes ; “The Book of St. Nicholas,” in one volume; and “ Tales, 
Fables, and Allegories,” originally published in various periodicals, in 
three volumes. Beside these, and some less pretensive works, he wrote 
much in the gazettes on political and other questions agitated in his time. 

Mr. Paulding held various honorable offices in his native state ; and 
in the summer of 1838, he was appointed, by President Van Buren, 
Secretary of the Navy. He continued to be a member of the cabinet 
until the close of Mr. Van Buren’s administration, in 1841. 


215 





216 JAMES K1RKE PAULDING. 

Mr. Paulding’s writings are distinguished for a decided nationality. 
He had no respect for authority unsupported by reason, but on all sub¬ 
jects thought and judged for himself. He defended our government and 
institutions, and embodied what is peculiar in our manners and opinions. 
There is hardly a character in his works who would not in any country 
be instantly recognised as an American. 

He is unequalled in a sort of quaint and whimsical humor, but occa¬ 
sionally falls into the common error of thinking there is humor in 
epithets. Humor is a quality of feeling and action, and like any senti¬ 
ment or habit should be treated in a style which indicates a sjunpatliy 
with it. He who pauses to invent its dress will usually find his inven¬ 
tion exhausted before he attempts its body. He seems generally to have 
no regular schemes and premeditated catastrophies. He follows the lead 
of a free fancy and writes down whatever comes into his mind. He 
creates his characters, and permits circumstances to guide their conduct. 

Mr. Paulding died at Tarrytown, April 4, i860. His son, W. I. 
Paulding, published his literary life, April, 1867, and four volumes of his 
select works were reprinted in New York in 1867-68. 


THE QUARREL OF SQUIRE BULL AND HIS SON 

FROM “JOHN BULL AND BROTHER JONATHAN.” 


T HE squire was as tight a hand to deal 
with in doors as out; sometimes treating 
his family as if they were not the same 
flesh and blood, when they happened to differ 
with him in certain matters. One day he got 
into a dispute with his youngest son Jonathan, 
who was familiarly called Brother Jonathan, 
about whether churches ought to be called 
churches or meeting-houses; and whether 
steeples were not an abomination. The squire, 
either having the worst of the argument, or 
being naturally impatient of contradiction, (I 
can’t tell which,) fell into a great passion, and 
swore he would physic such notions out of the 
boy’s noddle. So he went to some of his doc¬ 
tors and got them to draw up a prescription, 
made up of thirty-nine different articles, many 
of them bitter enough to some palates. 

This he tried to make Jonathan swallow; 
and finding he made villainous wry faces, and 


would not do it, fell upon him and beat him 
like fury. After this, he made the house so 
disagreeable to him, that Jonathan, though as 
hard as a pine knot and as tough as leather, 
could bear it no longer. Taking his gun and 
his axe, he put himself in a boat and paddled 
over the millpond to some new lands to which 
the squire pretended some sort of claim, 
intending to settle them, and build a meeting¬ 
house without a steeple as soon as he grew 
rich enough. 

When he got over, Jonathan found that the 
land was quite in a state of nature, covered 
with wood, and inhabited by nobody but wild 
beasts. But being a lad of mettle, he took his 
axe on one shoulder and his gun on the other, 
marched into the thickest of the wood, and 
clearing a place, built a log hut. Pursuing 
his labors, and handling his axe like a notable 
woodman, he in a few years cleared the land, 




JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. 


217 


which he laid out into thirteen good farms; 
and building himself a fine frame house, about 
half-finished, began to be quite snug and com¬ 
fortable. 

But Squire Bull, who was getting old 
and stingy, and, besides, was in great want 
of money, on account of his having lately 
been made to pay swinging damages for 
assaulting his neighbors and breaking their 
heads — the squire, I say, finding Jona¬ 
than was getting well to do in the world, 
began to be very much troubled about his 
welfare; so he demanded that Jonathan 
should pay him a good rent for the land 
which he had cleared and made good for 
something. He trumped up I know not what 
claim against him, and under different pre¬ 
tences managed to pocket all Jonathan’s 
honest gains. In fact, the poor lad had not 
a shilling left for holiday occasions ; and had 
it not been for the filial respect he felt for the 
old man, he would certainly have refused to 
submit to such impositions. 

But for all this, in a little time, Jonathan 
grew up to be very large of his age, and 
became a tall, stout, double-jointed, broad¬ 
footed cub of a fellow, awkward in his gait 
and simple in his appearance; but showing a 
lively, shrewd look, and having the promise 
of great strength when he should get his full 
growth. He was rather an odd-looking chap, 
in truth, and had many queer ways; but 
everybody that had seen John Bull saw a 
great likeness between them, and swore he 
was John’s own boy, and a true chip of the 
old block. Like the old squire, he was apt 


to be blustering and saucy, but in the main 
was a peaceable sort of careless fellow, that 
would quarrel with nobody if you only let 
him alone. He used to dress in homespun 
trousers with a huge bagging seat, which 
seemed to have nothing in it. This made 
people to say he had no bottom; but whoever 
said so lied, as they found to their cost when¬ 
ever they put Jonathan in a passion, He 
always wore a linsey-woolsey coat that did 
not above half cover his breech, and the 
sleeves of which were so short that his hand 
and wrist came out beyond them, looking like 
a shoulder of mutton. All which was in 
consequence of his growing so fast that he 
outgrew his clothes. 

While Jonathan was outgrowing his strength 
in this way, Bull kept on picking his pockets 
of every penny he could scrape together; till 
at last one day when the squire was even more 
than usually pressing in his demands, which 
he accompanied with threats, Jonathan 
started up in a furious passion, and threw the 
Tea-kettle at the old man’s head. The 
choleric Bull was hereupon exceedingly en¬ 
raged ; and after calling the poor lad an 
undutiful, ungrateful, rebellious rascal, seized 
him by the collar, and forthwith a furious 
scuffle ensued. This lasted a long time; for 
the squire, though in years, w T as a capital 
boxer, and of most excellent bottom. At 
last, however, Jonathan got him under, and 
before he would let him up, made him sign a 
paper, giving up all claim to the farms, and 
acknowledging the fee-simple to be in Jona¬ 
than for ever. 


DEATH IN THE COUNTRY. 

FROM “THE DUTCHMAN’S FIRESIDE.” 


T HERE is to my mind and to my early 
recollections something exquisitely 
touching in the tolling of a church-bell 
amid the silence of the country. It commu¬ 
nicates for miles around the message of mor¬ 
tality. The ploughman stops his horses to 
listen to the solemn tidings; the housewife 
remits her domestic occupations, and sits with 


her needle idle in her fingers, to ponder who 
it is that is going to the long home ; and even 
the little thoughtless children, playing and 
laughing their way from school, are arrested 
for a moment in their evening gambols by 
these sounds of melancholy import, and cover 
their heads when they go to rest. Already a 
deep shadow has fallen upon them. 






John Howard Payne. 

Author of “Home, Sweet Home.” 


HERE is no American author however great his name but would 
consider his reputation to have been enhanced if he had written 
our most beautiful American song, “ Home, Sweet Home.” 
John Howard Payne, an American actor and dramatic poet, was 
born in New York in 1792. In the character of “Young 
Norval,’’ he made his appearance in boyhood on the stage. 
Having gone to London, he founded in that city, in 1813, a journal en¬ 
titled, “ The Opera Glass.” In 1851 he was appointed our consul to 
Tunis, where he died in 1852. His remains now repose at Washington, 
D. C., where a splendid monument by Mr. Corcoran has been erected to 
his memory. 



ORATION OF BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA. 


W OULD you know why I have sum¬ 
moned you together ? 

Ask ye what brings me here ? Be¬ 
hold this dagger, 

Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse! 
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death! 
She was the mark and model of the time, 

The mould in which each female face was formed 
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue! 

Fairer than ever was a form created 
By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, 
And never-resting thought is all on fire! 

The worthiest of the worthy ! Not the nymph 
Who met old Numa in his hollowed walks, 
And whispered in his ear her strains divine, 
Can I conceive beyond her—the young choir 
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 

’Tis wonderful 

Amid the darnel, hemlock, and the base weeds, 
Which now spring rife from the luxurious 
compost 

Spread o’er the realm, how this sweet lily rose - 
218 


How from the shade of those ill-neighboring 
plants 

Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf 
Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, 
She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such per¬ 
fections 

Might have called back the torpid breast of age 
To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind 
Might have abashed the boldest libertine 
And turned desire to reverential love 
And holiest affection! 

O my countrymen ! 

You all can witness when that she went forth 
It was a holiday in Rome ; old age 
Forgot its crutch, labor its task—all ran, 

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, 
“ There, there’s Lucretia! ” Now look ye 
where she lies! 

That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet 
rose, 

Torn up by ruthless violence-gone! gone! gone/ 





JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 


219 


Say, would you seek instruction ! would ye 
ask 

What ye should do ? Ask ye yon conscious 
walls 

Which saw his poisoned brother— 

Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove 

O’er her dead father’s corse, ’t will cry, 
revenge! 

Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are 
purple 

With human blood, and it will cry, revenge ! 

Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife. 

And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, 

Their unappeased ghosts will shriek revenge ! 

The temples of the gods, the all-viewing 
heavens. 

The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, 

And swell the general sound, revenge! 
revenge! 


And we will be revenged, my country¬ 
men ! 

Brutus shall lead you on ; Brutus, a name 
Which will, when you’re revenged, be dearer 
to him 

Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. 

Brutus your king !—No. fellow-citizens! 

If mad ambition in this guilty frame 
Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one— 
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold 
Should rip it out, though it intwiued my 
heart. 

Now take the body up. Bear it before us 
To Tarquin’s palace; there we’ll light our 
torches, 

And in the blazing conflagration rear 
A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send 
Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus 
leads you! 


HOME, SWEET HOME. 


’ 1\ l\ ID pleasures and palaces though we may 
1V1 roam, 

Be it ever so humble there’s no place 
like home! 

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us 
there, 

Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met 
with elsewhere. 


Home! home! sweet, sweet home! 

There’s no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! 
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
The birds singing gayly that came at my call;— 
Give me them, and the peace of mind dearer 
than all! 

Home! home, etc. 


fl 





Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 

“ The American Hemans.” 



RS. SIGOURNEY’S graceful poems appeared at a time when 
our country could boast of no poetess of first rank. Mrs. 
Hemans, born in England three years later than Mrs. Sigour¬ 
ney’s birth in Norwich, Conn., which occurred in 1791, was 
becoming celebrated by those exquisite productions which 
have long been favorites with the lovers of verse. By common 
consent the two names were associated and Mrs. Sigourney was denomi¬ 
nated “ The American Hemans.” She was, however, a much more volu¬ 
minous author in prose than her famous contemporary in England. 

At the time she wrote and published her poems there were no authors 
to rival her claims to high distinction. Female writers had not appeared 
in American literature, and she has the prestige of being a pioneer. That 
she had remarkable gifts may be conceded without dispute. That the 
moral, elevating, healthful tone of her writings was always apparent, is 
equally beyond question. She appealed to the thoughtful, cultivated 
intelligence of her readers, who always found in her productions a stimu¬ 
lus toward right living and doing. 

Beloved and honored by a wide circle of friends and admirers, per¬ 
haps it is not too much to say that Mrs. Sigourney was an ideal woman 
of culture, of genius, industry and elevated aims. Her long and suc¬ 
cessful career is a matter of historic record. That one who wrote so con¬ 
stantly should have invariably written so well, evinces gifts of no ordinary 
character. 

After finishing her education, she taught for five years a select class 
of young ladies at Hartford. In 1819 she was married to Charles Sigour¬ 
ney, a Hartford merchant of literary and artistic tastes. She thenceforth 
devoted her leisure hours to literature, at first to gratify her own inclina¬ 
tion, and subsequently, after her husband had lost the greater part of his 
fortune, to add to her income. 

From her early contributions to periodicals her first volume, “ Moral 

Pieces of Prose and Verse.” was issued in 181s. More ambitious were 

220 





LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 


221 

her poems, “Traits of the Aborigines,” 1822; “ Zinzendorf,” 1826; and 
“ Pocahontas,” 1841, which was an earnest effort to present the poetical 
aspects of American scenery and history. “ Pleasant Memories of 
Pleasant Lands,” published in 1842, was the record of a tour in Europe, 
during which two volumes of her poems were published in London, a 
mark of distinguishing favor at that time to an American author. 

In 1848 a collected edition of her poems was published in New York. 
She issued a volume of posthumous letters in which she enumerated forty- 
six distinct works she had written, besides over two thousand articles in 
prose and verse that she had contributed to three hundred periodicals. 
Many of her books attained a wide circulation both in the United States 
and England. Mrs. Sigourney died at Hartford, Conn., in 1865. 


GO TO THY REST. 


G O to thy rest, fair child! 

Go to thy dreamless bed, 
While yet so gentle, undefiled, 
With blessings on thy head. 

Fresh roses in thy hand, 

Buds on thy pillow laid, 

Haste from this dark and fearful land, 
Where flowers so quickly fade. 

Ere sin has scared the breast, 

Or sorrow waked the tear, 


Rise to thy throne of changeless rest, 
In yon celestial sphere! 

Because thy smile was fair, 

Thy lip and eye so bright, 

Because thy loving cradle-care 
Was such a dear delight, 

Shall love, with weak embrace, 

Thy upward wing detain ? 

No ! gentle angel, seek thy place 
Amid the cherub train. 


THE CORAL INSECT. 


T OIL on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, 

Who build in the tossing and treacherous 
main; 

Toil on! for the wisdom of man ye mock, 
With your sand-based structures and domes of 
rock, 

Your columns the fathomless fountain’s cave, 
And your arches spring up to the crested wave ; 
Ye’re a puny race thus to boldly rear 
A fabric so vast in a realm so drear. 

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone— 

The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone, 
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, 
Like the terraced pride of Assyria’s king : 


The turf looks green where the breakers rolled; 
O’er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 
The sea-snatched isle is the home of men, 
And mountains exult where the wave hath 
been. 

But why do ye plant, ’neath the billow’s dark, 
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
There are snares enough on the tented field, 
Mid the blossomed sweets that the valley yield ; 
There are serpents to coil ere the flowers are 
up. 

There’s a poison drop in man’s purest cup, 
There are foes that watch for his cradle breath. 
And why need ye sow the floods with death? 






222 


LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 


With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright; 
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
With the mesh of the sea-boy’s curls of gold, 
And the gods of the ocean have frowned to 
see 

The mariner’s bed in their halls of glee ; 
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must 
spread 

The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? 


Ye build—ye build—but ye enter not in, 
Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in 
their sin 

From the land of promise ye fade and die 
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye; 
As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid, 
Their noiseless bones in oblivion hide, 

Ye slumber unmarked ’mid the desolate main, 
While the wonder and pride of your work 
remain. 


MAN-WOMAN. 


M AN’S home is everywhere. On ocean’s 
flood, 

Where the strong ship with storm-defy¬ 
ing tether 

Doth link in stormy brotherhood 
Earth’s utmost zones together, 
Where’er the red gold glows, the spice-trees 
wave, 

Where the rich diamond ripens, ’mid the flame 
Of vertic suns that ope the stranger’s grave, 
He with bronzed cheek and daring step 
doth rove; 

He with short pang and slight 
Doth turn him from the checkered light 
Of the fair moon through his own forests 
dancing, 

Where music, joy, and love 

Were his young hours entrancing; 

And where ambition’s thunder-claim 
Points out his lot, 

Or fitful wealth allures to roam, 

There doth he make his home, 

Repining not. 


It is not thus with Woman. The far halls, 
Though ruinous and lone, 

Where first her pleased ear drank a nursing- 
mother’s tone; 

The home with humble walls, 

Where breathed a parent’s prayer around her 
bed; 

The valley where, with playmates true, 
She culled the strawberry, bright with 
dew ; 

The bower where Love her timid footsteps 
led; 

The hearthstone where her children grew; 
The damp soil where she cast 
The-flower-seeds of her hope, and saw them 
bide the blast,— 

Affection with unfading tint recalls, 
Lingering round the ivied walls, 

Where every rose hath in its cup a bee, 
Making fresh honey of remembered things, 
Each rose without a thorn, each bee bereft of 
stings. 


THE EARLY 

LUEBIRD ! on yon leafless tree 
Dost thou carol thus to me : 

“ Spring is coming! Spring is here! ” 
Sayest thou so, my birdie dear ? 

What is that, in misty shroud, 

Stealing from the darkened cloud ? 

Lo ! the snow-flakes’ gathering mound 
Settles o’er the whitened ground, 

Yet thou singest, blithe and clear : 

“ Spring is come ! Spring is here! ” 


BLUEBIRD. 

Strikest thou not too bold a strain? 
Winds are piping o’er the plain ; 
Clouds are sweeping o’er the sky 
With a black and threatening eye: 
Urchins, by the frozen rill, 

Wrap their mantles closer still; 
Yon poor man, with doublet old, 
Doth he shiver at the cold ? 

Hath he not a nose of blue ? 

Tell me, birdling, tell me true. 







LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 


228 


Spring’s a maid of mirth and glee, 
Rosy wreaths and revelry ; 

Hast thou woed some winged love 
To a nest in verdant grove ? 

Sung to her of greenwood bower, 
Sunny skies that never lower ? 
Lured her with thy promise fair 
Of a lot that knows no care ? 
Pr’ythee, bird, in coat of blue, 
Thou a lover, tell her true. 


Ask her if, when storms are long, 
She can sing a cheerful song ? 

When the rude winds rock the tree, 
If she’ll closer cling to thee ? 

Then the blasts that sweep the sky, 
Unappalled shall pass thee by ; 
Though thy curtained chamber show 
Siftings of untimely snow, 

Warm and glad thy heart shall be ; 
Love shall make it spring for thee. 


A BUTTERFLY ON 

BUTTERFLY basked on a baby’s grave, 
Where a lily had chanced to grow: 
“Why art thou here, with thy gaudy 
dye, 

When she of the blue and sparkling eye 
Must sleep in the churchyard low ? ” 


A CHILD’S GRAVE. 

Then it lightly soared through the sunny air, 
And spoke from its shining track: 

“ I was a worm till I won my wings, 

And she whom thou mournest, like a seraph 
sings 

Wouldst thou call the blest one back?” 



NIAGARA. 


LOW on forever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty, Yes, flow on, 
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set 
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet.—And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
Eternally—bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence, and upon the rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe-struck praise. 

The morning stars, 

When first they sang o’er young creation’s 
birth, [fires 

Hoard thy deep anthem—and those wrecking 
That wait the archangel’s signal to dissolve 
The solid earth, shall find Jehovah’s name 
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 
On thine unfathomed page.—Each leafy bough 
That lifts itself within thy proud domain, 
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
And tremble at the baptism.—Lo ! yon birds 


Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing 
Amid thy foam and mist.—’Tis meet for them 
To touch thy garment’s hem—or lightly stir 
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath— 
Who sport unharmed upon the fleecy cloud, 
And listen at the echoing gate of heaven, 
Without reproof.—But as for us—it seems 
Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak 
Familiar of thee,— Methinks, to tint 
Thy glorious features with our pencil’s point, 
Or woo thee to a tablet of a song, 

Were profanation. 

Thou dost make the soul 
A wondering witness of thy majesty ; 

And while it rushes with delirious joy 
To tread the vestibule, dost chain its step 
And check its rapture with the humbling view 
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
In the dread presence of the Invisible, 

As if to answer to its God through thee. 







John Lothrop Motley. 

Historian of the Dutch Republic. 


MOTLEY was born April 15, 1814, at Dorchester, now a 
part of Boston, and graduated at Harvard University in 1831. 
Having spent two years in Germany and travelled for a time, 
chiefly in Italy, he returned to America in 1834, where he 
became a student of law and ultimately was called to the bar. 
In 1841 he received his first diplomatic appointment, being 
made Secretary of Legation to the Russian mission, but finding the 
atmosphere of St. Petersburg uncongenial, he resigned his post within a 
few months and definitely resolved on a literary career. 

About the year 1846 the project of writing a History of Holland 
had begun to take shape in his mind, and he had already prepared a con¬ 
siderable quantity of manuscript, when, finding the materials at his dis¬ 
posal in the United States quite inadequate for the completion of his work, 
he resolved to migrate to Europe along with his family in 1851. The 
next five years were spent at Berlin, Dresden, Brussels and the Hague in 
laborious investigation of the archieves preserved in those capitals, and 
resulted in 1856 in the publication of “ The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 
a History,” comprised in three volumes and published in London and 
New York. 

This work, which, after a large historical introduction, minutely 
follows the history of the Low Countries from the abdication of Charles in 
I 555 down to the assassination of William the Silent in 1584, immediately 
became highly popular by its graphic manner and the warm and sympa¬ 
thetic spirit in which it was written, while at the same time it was frankly 
recognized by scholars as a painstaking and conscientious piece of 
original work. It speedily passed through many English editions, was 
translated into French and also into Dutch, as well as into German and 
Russian. Pursuing his researches in England, France, Belgium and 
Holland, Motley was able to publish in i860 the two volumes of the 
“ History of the United Netherlands,” covering the period from the death 
of William the Silent in 1584 to shortly after the destruction of the 
224 






JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 


225 


Armada by which the Spanish project for subjugating England and 
reconquering the Netherlands was finally defeated. 

This work, which was on a somewhat larger scale than the preced¬ 
ing, embodied the results of a still greater amount of original research. 
By two new volumes published in 1868 the work was brought down to the 
twelve years’ truce in 1609. Meanwhile Motley from the close of 1861 
to 1867 had held the post of United States Minister at Vienna; in 1869 
he was appointed to a similar position at the Court of St. James, but was 
recalled in 1870. After a short visit to Holland he again took up his 
residence in England, where “ The Life aud Death of John Barneveld, 
Advocate of Holland, with a view of the Primary Causes of the Thirty 
Years’ War,” appeared in two volumes in 1874. Ill health now began 
to interfere with sustained literary vigor and he died at Dorchester, Dor¬ 
setshire, on May 29, 1877. 

The merits of Motley as a historian are undeniably great; he has 
told a story of a stirring period in the history of the world with full 
attention to the character of the actors and strict fidelity to the numer¬ 
ous vivid details of the action. But it may safely be said that his tale is 
best where most unvarnished, and probably no writer of the same rank 
has owed less to the mere sparkle of highly polished literary style. 


END OF THE SIEGE OF LEYDEN. 


L EYDEN was relieved. The quays were 
lined with the famishing population, as 
the fleet rowed through the canals, 
every human being who could stand, coming 
forth to greet the preservers of the city. Bread 
was thrown from every vessel among the 
crowd. The poor creatures who, for two 
months, had tasted no wholesome human food, 
and who had literally been living within the 
jaws of death, snatched eagerly the blessed 
gift, at last too liberally bestowed. Many 
choked themselves to death, in the greediness 
with which they devoured their bread ; others 
became ill with the effects of plenty thus sud¬ 
denly succeeding starvation;—but these were 
isolated cases, a repetition of which was 
prevented. 

The Admiral, stepping ashore, was wel¬ 
comed by the magistracy, and a solemn 
15 


procession was immediately formed. Magis¬ 
trates and citizens, wild Zealanders, emaciated 
burgher guards, sailors, soldiers, women, 
children—nearly every living person within 
the walls, all repaired without delay to the 
great church, stout Admiral Boisot leading 
the way. The starving and heroic city, which 
had been so firm in its resistance to an earthly 
king, now bent itself in humble gratitude 
before the King of kings. After prayers, 
the whole vast congregation joined in the 
thanksgiving hymn. Thousands of voices 
raised the song, but few were able to carry it 
to its conclusion, for the universal emotion, 
deepened by the music, became too full for 
utterance. The hymn was abruptly sus¬ 
pended, while the multitude wept like chil¬ 
dren. 

This scene of honest pathos terminated, the 




226 


JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 


necessary measures for distributing the food 
and for relieving the sick were taken by the 
magistracy. A note dispatched to the Prince 
of Orange, was received by him at two 
o’clock, as he sat in church at Delft. It was 
of a somewhat different purport from that of 
the letter which he had received early in the 
same day from Boisot; the letter in which 
the admiral had informed him that the suc¬ 
cess of the enterprise depended, after all, upon 
the desperate assault upon a nearly impreg¬ 
nable fort. The joy of the Prince may be 
easily imagined, and so soon as the sermon 
was concluded, he handed the letter just 
received to the minister, to be read to the 
congregation. Thus, all participated in his 
joy, and united with him in thanksgiving. 

The next day, notwithstanding the urgent 
entreaties of his friends, who were anxious 
lest his life should be endangered by breathing, 
in his scarcely convalescent state, the air of 
the city where so many thousands had been 
dying of the pestilence, the Prince repaired to 
Leyden. He, at least, had never doubted his 


own or his country’s fortitude. They could, 
therefore, most sincerely congratulate each 
other, now that the victory had been achieved. 
“ If we are doomed to perish,” he had said a 
little before the commencement of the siege, 
“ in the name of God, be it so ! At any rate, 
we shall have the honor to have done what no 
nation ever did before us, that of having 
defended and maintained ourselves, unaided, 
in so small a country, against the tremendous 
efforts of such powerful enemies. So long as 
the poor inhabitants here, though deserted by 
all the world, hold firm, it will still cost the 
Spaniards the half of Spain, in money and in 
men, before they can make an end of us.” 

The termination of the terrible siege of 
Leyden was a convincing proof to the Span¬ 
iards that they had not yet made an end of 
the Hollanders. It furnished, also, a sufficient 
presumption that until they had made an end 
of them, even unto the last Hollander, there 
would never be an end of the struggle in 
which they were engaged. 


THE HERO OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC. 


N O man—not even Washington—has ever 
been inspired by a purer patriotism 
than that of William of Orange. 
Whether originally of a timid temperament 
or not, he was certainly possessed of perfect 
courage at last. In siege and battle, in the 
deadly air of pestilential cities, in the long 
exhaustion of mind and body which comes 
from unduly protracted labor and anxiety, 
amid the countless conspiracies of assassins, he 
was daily exposed to death in every shape. 
Within two years five different attempts 
against his life had been discovered. Rank 
and fortune were offered to any malefactor 
who would compass the murder. He had 
already been shot through the head, and 
almost mortally wounded. 


He went through life bearing the load of a 
people’s sorrows upon his shoulders with a 
smiling face. Their name was the last word 
upon his lips, save the simple affirmative with 
which the soldier who had been battling for 
the right all his lifetime commended his soul, 
in dying, “ to the great Captain, Christ.” The 
people were grateful and affectionate, for they 
trusted the character of their “Father Wil¬ 
liam,” and not all the clouds which calumny 
could collect ever dimmed to their eyes the 
radiance of that lofty mind to which they 
were accustomed, in their darkest calamities, 
to look for light. As long as he lived he was 
the guiding-star of a whole brave nation, and 
when he died the little children cried in the 
streets. 





Rose Terry Cooke. 

Writer of Poems and Captivating Tales. 



,OSE TERRY took her place easily among the brightest stars in 
the galaxy of American authoresses. The fascinating power 
and genuine literary merit of her writings, especially in prose, 
have been universally admitted. She has shown uncommon 
facility and aptness in her short tales, published in various 
periodicals. She was born in West Hartford, Conn., in 1827, 
and in 1873 was married to Mr. R. H. Cooke, of Winsted. In i860 she 
published “ Poems by Rose Terry,” “ Happy Dod ” in 1875, and “ Some¬ 
body’s Neighbors” in 1881. 


A PICTURE. 


U PON her pale cheek, day by day, 
No tender rosy blushes play; 

The shadows gathered in her hair 
Lie soft above her forehead fair— 

A frailer shade is she. 

No footstep on the stones goes by 
But strikes a fire across her eye ; 

No sudden voice a word can speak 
But flashes red light on her cheek— 
Such guards her quick thoughts be. 

All day she sees the sullen rain 
Splash low against the window-pane, 

All night the south wind makes its moan 
About her chamber low and lone; 

She cannot die onr rest. 


Like some old saint in cell withdrawn, 
In prayer and penance till the dawn, 

So her sad soul its vigil holds, 

As year on year to life unfolds, 

And wears her patient breast. 

Not any leech can find a cure 
For these slow miseries that endure, 
Till Heaven before her eyes shall ope—» 
The golden gate foreseen by hope, 

And medicine her heart. 

There is no new life for the dead, 

No gathering up the tears once shed ; 
Pray, ye beloved, who pity her, 

That God no more that rest defer— 
Pray that her soul depart. 


MRS. ANTHON’S BABY. 


P ETER was a very pretty baby, and his 
mother was extremely fond of him; 
but it was not to be denied that he pre¬ 
ferred Old Hannah to his Mamma—that, like 
most babies, and perhaps a few undignified 
grown people, he liked better to be kissed, 
and fondled, and rubbed and cooed over, 


than to be laid straight out on two knees, or 
stuck bolt upright on a rectangular arm and 
addressed grammatically. For, say what you 
will, my dear brother, babies do like baby- 
talk, and know its professors with a “ knowl¬ 
edge that is love,” as Mr. Kingsley says. 

Just let you and I go down on our knees 

227 








228 


ROSE TERRY COOKE. 


together before that cherub in white cambric | 
on the sofa there. You enter into conversa- | 
lion with it as you speak to any body else, 
and I assail it with those honeyed elisions, 
and tenderest nonsenses, shorn of labials and 
denuded of harsh consonants, made fluent 
and gracious with the indescribable loving 
sounds that Sir Thomas Browne meant when 
he asked leave to “ coin the word cordiloquy.” 
Don’t you see whom those dreamy eyes turn 
toward and seek for? Is it you those blessed 
little arms reach for? Is it you the soft pink 
lips begin to answer with inarticulate tones 
and the pucker of a coming smile ? Ah no 1 
you know better! I have conquered you 
with the most irresistible logic—with the 
baby’s own induction from fairly-stated 
premises: bless its heart! 

So it naturally came about that Hannah 
had more to do with the baby than Mrs. 
Anthon herself; and as she possessed fully 
the true feminine joy in being tyrannized 
over, and knew the art of spoiling children 


by heart, Master Peter, by his third year, had 
Hannah completely under his thumb, and re¬ 
garded his mother with the same calm admir- 
ration he felt for the sideboard. Peter was 
beginning to be troublesome, to tell the truth. 

Mrs. Anthon had set hours for his recep¬ 
tion ; but he would secrete scraps of bread 
and butter under his embroidered frock, and 
produce them on Mamma’s satin lap, or daub 
his fingers on the camel’s hair shawl, or play 
horse with a big velvet chair, and bang it up 
against the sideboard, till glass and plate 
trembled at the shock, while his lawful gov¬ 
erness sat quaking on the sofa, all unable to 
redress her grievances short of using physical 
force, of which she disapproved; and utter¬ 
ing inadequate remonstrances and remarks, 
unheard in the noise of Peter’s cavalry charge, 
and fully convinced that some one had blun¬ 
dered in supposing character to be hereditary; 
for did not that uproarious, astonishing, inex¬ 
plicable child spring from the highest old 
respectability ? 


“IT IS MORE BLESSED.” 


G IVE! as the morning that flows out of 
heaven; 

Give! as the waves when their chan¬ 
nel is riven; 

Give ! as the free air and sunshine are given ; 

Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give :— 

Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing, 
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever 
glowing, 

Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing; 
Give, as He gave thee, who gave thee to 
live. 

Pour out thy love, like the rush of a river, 
Wasting its waters, forever and ever, 

Through the burnt sands that reward not the 
giver; 

Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea. 
Scatter thy life, as the summer showers pouring! 
What if no bird through the pearl-rain is 
soaring ? 

What if no blossom looks upward adoring? 
Look to the life that was lavished for thee! 


So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses, 

Evil and thankless the desert it blesses, 

Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses, 
Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing. 

What if the hard heart gives thorns for thy 
roses ? 

What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes ? 

Sweetest is music with minor-keyed closes, 
Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling. 

Almost the day of thy giving is over; 

Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted 
clover, 

Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from 
lover; 

What shall thy longing avail in the grave? 

Give, as the heart gives, whose fetters are 
breaking, 

Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy 
waking, 

Soon heaven’s river thy soul-fever slaking, 
Thou shalt know God, and the gift that 
he gave. 






Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

Author of Charming Lyrics. 


NE of tlie most honorable literary careers, and withal profitable, 
is that of Mr. Aldrich, who is very widely and favorably known 
as a writer of both prose and verse. It is sufficient to say that 
for a number of years he was editor of the “Atlantic Monthly.” 
and only resigned the position for the purpose of travelling 
and allowing himself a period of leisure and of literary work 
somewhat different from that of editor. 

Mr. Aldrich has been an industrious author and has secured a wide 
circle of readers who fully appreciate his artistic skill, which appears in 
all his productions. Never writing merely to order, never writing to 
gratify a fleeting fancy, but always with a high aim in view and with an 
earnest endeavor to put forth the best product of his pen, he has been 
invariably successful and has written few lines “ which dying, he would 
wish to blot.” 

He was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in 1836. All through 
his early life he contributed verses to different publications, and these 
were gathered in 1876, with newer matter, into one volume under the 
name of “ Cloth of Gold.” Later volumes of verse were “ Flower and 
Thorn,” which appeared in 1876; and “ Mercedes,” issued in 1883. 

Mr. Aldrich is also a prose author and has published several volumes, 
all of which are stamped with the characteristics of his own superior 
talent. Among these works are “ The Story of a Bad Boy,” issued in 
1869; “Prudence Palfrey,” 1874; “ The Queen of Sheba,” 1877; “The 
Still Water Tragedy,” 1880; and “ From Ponkapog to Pesth,” which 
was given to the public in 1882. Among his later poems is “Judith and 
Holofernes,” which was published in 1896. Among the later prose works 
are “An Old Town by the Sea,” and “ Two Bites at a Cherry and Other 
Tales,” published in 1893 ; and “Unguarded Gates,” in 1895. Mr. Ald¬ 
rich’s complete works in eight volumes were published in 1897. 

Like so many of our authors, Mr. Aldrich was a newspaper corres- 

229 




230 


THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 


pondent during our Civil War and was connected with the army of the 
Potomac. Previous to this he had been a contributor to the “ Home 
Journal,” under the editorship of N. P. Willis. He was also a writer for 
the li Illustrated News ” and “ The New York Evening Mirror.” His 
literary work may be said to have begun when he became a reader for a 
New York publishing house. 

His marriage took place in 1865, when he removed to Boston where 
he edited “ The Weekly Journal ” every Saturday. Having remained on 
this paper until 1874 he succeeded William Dean Howells as editor of 
the “Atlantic Monthly.” Yale University gave him the degree of A. M. 
in 1883 and Harvard repeated the honor in 1869. 


KATHIE 

A H! fine it was that April time, when gentle 
winds were blowing, 

To hunt for pale arbutus-blooms that 
hide beneath the leaves, 

To hear the merry rain come down, and see 
the clover growing, 

And watch the airy swallows as they darted 
round the eaves! 

You wonder why I dream to-night of clover 
that was growing 

So many years ago, my wife, when we were 
in our prime; 

Fo’, hark! the wind is in the flue, and 
Johnny says ’tis snowing, 

And through the storm the clanging bells 
ring in the Christmas time. 

I cannot tell, but something sweet about my 
heart is clinging, 

A vision and a memory—’tis little that I 
mind 

The weary wintry weather, for I hear the 
robins singing, 

And the petals of the apple-blooms are ruf¬ 
fled in the wind! 

It was a sunny morn in May, and in the 
fragrant meadow 

I lay, and dreamed of one fair face, as fair 
and fresh as Spring: 


MORRIS. 

Would Kathie Morris love me? Then in 
sunshine and in shadow 

I built up loft castles on a golden wedding- 
ring. 

Oh sweet it was to dream of her, the soldier’s 
only daughter, 

The pretty pious Puritan, that flirted so 
with Will; 

The music of her winsome mouth was like the 
laughing water 

That broke in silvery syllables by Farmer 
Philip’s mill. 

And Will had gone away to sea: he did not 
leave her grieving; 

Her bonny heart was not for him, so reck¬ 
less and so vain; 

And Will turned out a buccaneer, and hanged 
was he for thieving, 

And scuttling helpless ships that sailed 
across the Spanish main. 

And I had come to grief for her, the scornful 
village beauty, 

For, oh, she had a witty tongue could cut 
you like a knife; 

She scanned me with her handsome eyes, and 
I, in bounden duty. 

Did love her—loved her more for that, and 
wearied of my life. 




THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 


231 


And yet ’twas sweet to dream of her, to think 
her wavy tresses 

Might rest, some happy, happy day, like 
sunshine on my cheek; 

The idle winds had fanned my brow I dreamed 
were her caresses, 

And in the robin’s twitterings I heard my 
sweetheart speak. 

The silken fringes of her eyes upon her cheeks 
were drooping, 

Her merciless white fingers tore a blushing 
bud apart; 

Then, quick as lightning, Kathie came and 
kneeling half and stooping, 

She hid her bonnie, bonnie face against my 
beating heart. 

Oh nestle, nestle, nestle there! the heart would 
give thee greeting; 

Lie thou there, all trustfully, in trouble 
and in pain; 

This breast shall shield thee from the storm, 
and bear its bitter beating ; 

These arms shall hold thee tenderly in sun¬ 
shine and in rain! 


Old Sexton, set your chimes in tune, and let 
there be no snarling, 

Ring out the happy wedding hymn to all 
the listening air; 

And, girls, strew roses as she comes—the 
scornful, brown-eyed darling, 

A princess, by the wavy gold and glisten¬ 
ing of her hair. 

Hark! hear the bells! The Christmas bells ! 
oh, no ; who set them ringing? 

I think I hear our bridal bells, and I with 
joy am blind— 

Johnny, don’t make such a noise! I hear 
the robins singing, 

And the petals of the apple-blooms are 
ruffled in the wind. 

Ah! Kathie, you’ve been true to me in fair 
and cloudy weather; 

Our Father has been good to us when we’ve 
been sorely tried; 

I pray to God, when we must die, that we 
may die together, 

And slumber softly underneath the clover, 
side by side. 


THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE. 


ABLE, little Mable, 

With face against the pane, 
Looks out across the night 
And sees the Beacon light 
A-trembling in the rain. 
She hears the sea-birds screech, 
And the breakers on the beach 
Making moan, making moan. 
And the wind about the eaves 
Of the cottage sobs and grieves; 
And the willow-tree is blown 
To and fro, to and fro, 

Till it seems like some old crone 
Standing out there all alone, 

With her woe, 

Wringing, as she stands, 

Her gaunt and palsied hands! 
While Mable, timid Mable, 

With face against the pane, 
Looks out across the night, 


And sees the Beacon Light 
A-trembling in the rain. 

Set the table, maiden Mabel, 

And make the cabin warm ; 

Your little fisher-lover 
Is out there in the storm, 

And your father—you are weeping ! 

O Mabel, timid Mabel, 

Go spread the supper-table, 

And set the tea a-steeping. 

Your lover’s heart is brave; 

His boat is staunch and tight, 

And your father knows the perilous reef 
That makes the water white. 

—But Mable, darling Mable, 

With face against the pane, 

Looks out across the night 
At the Beacon in the rain. 






232 


THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 


The heavens are veined with fire! 
And the thunder, how it rolls! 

In the ladings of the storm 
The solemn church-bell tolls 
For lost souls! 

But no sexton sounds the knell 
In that belfry old and high; 

Unseen fingers sway the bell 
As the wind goes tearing by! 

How it tolls for the souls 
Of sailors on the sea! 

God pity them, God pity them, 
Wherever they may be! 

God pity wives and sweethearts 
Who wait and wait in vain! 

And pity little Mabel, 

With face against the pane. 

A boom!—the Lighthouse gun! 

(How its echo rolls and rolls!) 

’Tis to warn the home-bound ships 
Off the shoals ! 

See! a rocket cleaves the sky 
From the Fort—a shaft of light! 

See! it fades, and, fading, leaves 
Golden furrows on the night! 

What made Mable’s cheek so pale ? 
What made Mabel’s lips so white? 

Did she see the helpless sail 
That, tossing here and there, 

Like a feather in the air, 


Went down and out of sight? 

Down, down, and out of sight! 

Oh, watch no more, no more, 

With face against the pane ; 

You cannot see the men that drown 
By the Beacon in the rain ! 

From a shoal of richest rubies 

Breaks the morning clear and cold. 
And the angel on the village spire, 
Frost-touched, is bright as gold, 
Four ancient fishermen, 

In the pleasant autumn air, 

Come toiling up the sands, 

With something in their hands— 

Two bodies stark and white, 

Ah, so ghastly in the light, 

With sea-weed in their hair 1 

O ancient fishermen, 

Go up to yonder cot! 

You’ll find a little child, 

With face against the pane, 

Who looks toward the beach. 

And, looking, sees it not. 

She will never watch again! 

Never watch and weep at night? 
For those pretty, saintly eyes 
Look beyond the stormy skies, 

And they see the Beacon Light. 


AFTER THE RAIN. 


T HE rain has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours an airy flood ; 
And on the church’s dizzy vane 
The ancient cross is bathed in blood. 


A dormer, facing westward, looks 
Upon the village like an eye: 

And now it glimmers in the sun, 

A globe of gold, a disk, a speck; 
And in the belfry sits a dove 
With purple ripples on her neck. 


From out the dripping ivy leaves, 
Antiquely carven, gray and high, 





Edward Eggleston. 

“ The Hoosier Author.” 


HIS Methodist clergyman, journalist and author of a number of 
Hoosier stories that have been well received by the reading 
public, was born in Vevay, Indiana, in 1837. His father was 
a Virginia lawyer and his mother a native of Kentucky. As 
his health was delicate, he received his education mostly at 
home and continued ill health has several times obliged him 
to abandon the ministry. 

He has been both a circuit rider and a settled pastor; a farmer and 
a storekeeper; an editor and an author, and has lived in the West and in 
the Hast. He has written juvenile stories and contributed to mature 
literature, both religious and secular. In 1870-71 he was editor of the 
New York “ Independent ” and of “ Hearth and Home,” and from 1872 
to 1879 was pastor of a Brooklyn church, “ a church without a creed.” 
In the latter year, however, ill health compelled him to retire to his home 
on Lake George, from which have issued several of his most charming 
stories. 

Besides having established himself in American literature with the 
“Hoosier Schoolmaster,” 1871, he is admired as the auther of “The 
Graysons,” the “ The Circuit Rider,’’ 1874, and other stories, all of which 
have a pure, healthy tone. He published “ End of the World ” in 1872 ; 
“ The Mystery of Metropolisville ” in 1873 ; “ The Circuit Rider ” in 
1874; “ School-master’s Stories for Boys and Girls ” in 1874 ; “ The 
Hoosier School-boy ” in 1883 ; and “ The Beginners of a Nation ” in 
1897. Mr. Eggleston speaks of his own works as follows: “I should 
say that what distinguishes my novels from other works of fiction is the 
prominence which they give to social conditions; that the individual char¬ 
acters are here treated to a greater degree than elsewhere as parts of a 
study of a society, as in some sense the logical result of the environment. 
Whatever may be the rank assigned to these stories as works of literary 
art, they will always have a certain value as materials for the student of 
social history.” 





234 


EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


SPELLING DOWN THE MASTER. 

FROM “THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER.” 

BY PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR: ORANGE JUDD CO., PUBLISHERS. 


E VERY family furnished a candle. There 
were yellow dips and white dips, burn¬ 
ing, smoking, and flaring. There was 
laughing and talking, and giggling, and sim¬ 
pering, and ogling, and flirting, and courting. 
What a dress party is to Fifth avenue, a spell¬ 
ing-school is to Hoophole County, It is an 
occasion which is metaphorically inscribed 
with this legend, “Choose your partners.” 
Spelling is only a blind in Hoophole County, 
as is dancing on Fifth Avenue. But as there 
are some in society who love dancing for its" 
own sake, so in Flat Creek district there were 
those who loved spelling for its own sake, and 
who, smelling the battle from afar, had come 
to try their skill in this tournament, hoping 
to freshen the laurels they had won in their 
school-days. 

“ I ’low,” said Mr. Means, speaking as the 
principal school trustee, “I ’low our friend 
the Square is jest the man to boss this ere 
consarn to-night. Ef nobody objects, I’ll 
appoint him. Come, Square, don’t be bashful. 
Walk right up to the trough, fodder or no 
fodder, as the man said to his donkey.” 

There was a general giggle at this, and 
many of the young swains took occasion to 
nudge the girls alongside them, ostensibly for 
the purpose of making them see the joke, but 
really for the pure pleasure of nudging. 

The squire came to the front. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, shoving 
up his spectacles, and sucking his lips over 
his white teeth to keep them in place, “ ladies 
and gentlemen, young men and maidens, 
raley I’m obleeged to Mr. Means fer this 
honor,” and the Squire took both hands and 
turned the top of his head round several 
inches. Then he adjusted his spectacles. 
Whether he was obliged to Mr. Means for the 
honor of being compared to a donkey, was 
not clear. “ I feel in the inmost compart¬ 
ments of my animal spirits a most happyfying 
sense of the success and futility of all my 
endeavors to sarve the people of Flat Creek [ 


deestrick, and the people of Tomkins town¬ 
ship, in my weak way and manner.” 

This burst of eloquence was delivered with 
a constrained air and an apparent sense of 
danger that he, Squire Hawkins, might fall 
to pieces in his weak way and manner, and 
of the success and futility (especially the 
latter) of all attempts at reconstruction. For 
by this time the ghastly pupil of the left eye, 
which was black, was looking away round to 
the left, while the little blue one on the right 
twinkled cheerfully toward the front. The 
front teeth would drop down so that the 
Squire’s mouth was kept nearly closed, and 
his words whistled through. 

“ I feel as I could be grandiloquent on this 
interesting occasion,” twisting his scalp round, 
“ but raley I must forego any such exertions. 
It is spelling you want. Spelling is the 
corner-stone, the grand, underlying subterfuge 
of a good eddication. I put the spellin’-book 
prepared by the great Daniel Webster along¬ 
side the Bible. I do raley. The man who 
compounded this little work of inextricable 
valoo was a benefactor to the whole human 
race or any other.” Here the spectacles fell 
off. The Squire replaced them in some con¬ 
fusion, gave the top of his head another 
twist, and felt for his glass eye, while poor 
Shocky stared in wonder, and Betsy Short 
rolled from side to side in the effort to sup¬ 
press her giggle. Mrs. Means and the other 
old ladies looked the applause they could not 
speak. 

“ I appint Larkin Lanham and Jeemes 
Buchanan fer captings,” said the Squire. And 
the two young men thus named took a stick 
and tossed it from hand to hand, to decide 
who should have the “first chice.” One 
tossed the stick to the other, who held it fast 
just where he happened to catch it. Then 
the first placed his hand above the second, 
and so the hands were alternately changed to 
the top. The one who held the stick last 
without room for the other to take hold had 




EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


235 


gained the lot. This was tried three times. 
As Larkin held the stick twice out of three 
times, he had the choice. He hesitated a 
moment. Everybody looked toward tall Jim 
Phillips. But Larkin was fond of a venture 
on unknown seas, and so he said, “ I take the 
master,” while a buzz of surprise ran round 
the room, and the captain of the other side, 
as if afraid his opponent would withdraw 
the choice, retorted quickly, and with a little 
smack of exultation and defiance in his voice : 
“ And / take Jeems Phillips.” 

And soon all present, except a few of the 
old folks, found themselves ranged in oppos¬ 
ing hosts, the poor spellers lagging in, with 
what grace they could at the foot of the two 
divisions. The Squire opened his spelling- 
book and began to give out the words to the 
two captains, who stood up and spelled 
against each other. It was not long before 
Larkin spelled “ really ” with one l, and had 
to sit down in confusion, while a murmur 
of satisfaction ran through the ranks of the 
opposing forces. His own side bit their lips. 
The slender figure of the young teacher took 
the place of the fallen leader, and the excite¬ 
ment made the house very quiet. 

Ralph dreaded the loss of influence he 
would suffer if he should be easily spelled 
down. And at the moment of rising he saw 
in the darkest corner the figure of a well- 
dressed young man sitting in the shadow. It 
made him tremble. Why should his evil 
genius haunt him? But by a strong effort he 
turned his attention away from Dr. Small, 
and listened carefully to the words which the 
Squire did not pronounce very distinctly, 
spelling them with extreme deliberation. 
This gave him an air of hesitation which dis¬ 
appointed those on his own side. They wanted 
him to spell with a dashing assurance. But 
he did not begin a word until he had mentally 
felt his way through it. 

After ten minutes of spelling hard words, 
Jeems Buchanan, the captain of the other 
side, spelled “ atrocious ’ with an s instead of 
a c, and subsided, his first choice, Jeems Phil¬ 
lips, coming up against the teacher. This 
brought the excitement to fever-heat. For 
though Ralph was chosen first, it was entirely 


on trust, and most of the company were dis¬ 
appointed. The champion who now stood up 
against the school-master was a famous speller. 

Jim Phillips was a tall, lank, stoop-shoul¬ 
dered fellow, who had never distinguished 
himself in any other pursuit than spelling. 
Except in this one art of spelling he was of 
no account. He could neither catch a ball wel 1 
or bat well. He could not throw well enough 
to make his mark in that famous Western 
game of Bull-pen. He did not succeed well 
in any study but that of Webster’s Elemen¬ 
tary. Butin that—to use the usual Flat Creek 
locution—he was “a hoss.” The genius for 
spelling is in some people a sixth sense, a 
matter of intuition. Some spellers are born 
and not made, and their facility reminds one 
of the mathematical prodigies that crop out 
every now and then to bewilder the world. 

Bud Means, foreseeing that Ralph would 
be pitted against Jim Phillips, had warned his 
friend that Jim could spell “like thunder and 
lightning,” and that it “took a powerful 
smart speller” to beat him, for he knew “a 
heap of spelling-book.” To have “spelled 
down the master ” is next thing to having 
whipped the biggest bully in Hoophole 
County, and Jim had “ spelled down ” the 
last three masters. He divided the hero- 
worship of the district with Bud Means. 

For half an hour the Squire gave out hard 
words. What a blessed thing our crooked 
orthography is. Without it there could be 
no spelling-schools. As Ralph discovered his 
opponent’s mettle he became more and more 
cautious. He was now satisfied that Jim 
would eventually beat him. The fellow evi¬ 
dently knew more about the spelling-book 
than old Noah Webster himself. As he stood 
there, with his dull face and long sharp nose, 
his hands behind his back, and his voice spell¬ 
ing infallibly, it seem to Hartsook that his 
superiority must lie in his nose, 

Ralph’s cautiousness answered a double 
purpose ; it enabled him to tread surely, and 
it was mistaken by Jim for weakness. Phil¬ 
lips was now confident that he should carry 
off the scalp of the fourth school-master 
before the evening was over. He spelled 
eagerly, confidently, brilliantly. Stoop-shoul- 




236 


EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


dered as he was, he began to straighten up. 
In the minds of all the company the odds 
were in his favor. He saw this, and became 
ambitious to distinguish himself by spelling 
without giving the matter any thought. 

Ralph always believed that he would have 
been speedily defeated by Phillips had it not 
been for two things which braced him. The 
sinister shadow of young Dr. Small sitting in 
the dark corner by the water-bucket nerved 
him. A victory over Phillips was a defeat to 
one who wished only ill to the young school¬ 
master. The other thought that kept his 
pluck alive was the recollection of Bull. He 
approached a word as Bull approached a rac¬ 
coon. He did not take hold until he was 
sure of his game. When he took hold, it was 
with a quiet assurance of success. As Ralph 
spelled in this dogged way for half an hour 
the hardest words the Squire could find, the 
excitement steadily rose in all parts of the 
house, and Ralph’s friends even ventured to 
whisper that “maybe Jim had cotched his 
match after all! ” 

But Phillips never doubted of his success. 

“ Theodolite,” said the Squire. 

“ T-h-e, the, o-d, od, theod, o, theodo, 1-y-t-e, 
theodolite,” spelled the champion. 

“Next,” said the Squire, nearly losing his 
teeth in his excitement. 

Ralph spelled the word slowly and correctly, 
and the conquered champion sat down in con¬ 
fusion. The excitement was so great for some 
minutes that the spelling was suspended. 
Everybody in the house had shown sympathy 
with one or other of the combatants, except 
the silent shadow in the corner. It had not 
moved • during the contest, and did not show 
any interest now in the result. 

“ Gewhilliky crickets! Thunder and light¬ 
ning ! Licked him all to smash! ” said Bud, 
rubbing his hands on his knees. “ That beats 
my time all holler! ” 

And Betsy Short giggled until her tuck- 
comb fell out, though she was on the defeated 
side. 

Shocky got up and danced with pleasure. 

But one suffocating look from the aqueous 


eyes of Mirandy destroyed the last spark of 
Ralph’s pleasure in his triumph, and sent that 
awful below-zero feeling all through him. 

“ He’s powerful smart, is the master,” said 
old Jack to Mr. Pete Jones. “ He’ll beat the 
whole kit and tuck of ’em afore he’s through. 
I know’d he was smart. That’s the reason I 
tuck him,” proceeded Mr. Means. 

“ Yaas, but he don’t lick enough. Not 
nigh,” answered Pete Jones. “No lickin’, no 
lamin’, says I.” 

Young men were timidly asking girls if 
they could “ see them safe home,” which is 
the approved formula, and were trembling in 
mortal fear of “ the mitten.” Presently the 
Squire thinking it time to close the contest, 
pulled his scalp forward, adjusted his glass 
eye, which had been examining his nose long 
enough, and turned over the leaves of the 
book to the great words at the place known 
to spellers as “ Incomprehensibility,” and be¬ 
gan to give out those “ words of eight sylla¬ 
bles with the accent on the sixth.” Listless 
scholars now turned round, and ceased to 
whisper, in order to be in at the master’s final 
triumph. 

But to their surprise, “ole Miss Meanses’ 
white nigger,” as some of them called her, in 
allusion to her slavish life, spelled these great 
words with as perfect ease as the master. Still, 
not doubting the result, the Squire turned 
from place to place and selected all the hard 
words he could find. The school became ut¬ 
terly quiet, the excitement was too great for 
the ordinary buzz. Would “ Meanses’ Han- 
ner” beat the master? Beat the master that 
had laid out Jim Phillips? Everybody’s 
sympathy was now turned to Hannah. Ralph 
noticed that even Shocky had deserted him, 
and that his face grew brilliant every time 
Hannah spelled a word. In fact, Ralph 
deserted himself. If he had not felt that a 
victory given would insult her, he would have 
missed intentionally. “ Daguerreotype,” snif¬ 
fled the Squire. It was Ralph’s turn. 

“D-a-u, dau-” 

“ Next.” 

And Hannah spelled it right. 



George Henry Boker. 

Famous for His “ War Lyrics.” 



R. BOKER is known especially for his “ War Lyrics,” published 


in 1864, in some 


of which the scenes of the Civil War are 


depicted with graphic force. His first volume was entitled, 
“ The Lesson of Life and Other Poems,” and appeared in 1847. 
Several other volumes followed in rapid succession, all of 
which were well received by the reading public. That he is 
entitled to a conspicuous place among American poets, is generally 


conceded. 

Born in Philadelphia, October 6, 1823, he graduated at Princeton 
College in 1842, and studied law, but never practiced. He was a man of 
some prominence in public affairs, and in 1871 was appointed minister to 
Constantinople, and in 1874 minister to St. Petersburg. He was the 
editor of “ Lippincott’s Magazine ” several years. His death occurred in 
Philadelphia, January 2, 1890. 


ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND. 

MARCH 7, 1862. 


“ O TAND to your guns, men! ” Morris cried; 
^ Small need to pass the word ; 

Our men at quarters ranged themselves 
Before the drum was heard. 

And then began the sailors’ jests: 

“What thing is that, I say?” 

“ A ’long-shore meeting-house adrift 
A standing down the bay ? ” 

“ So shot your guns and point them straight: 
Before this day goes by, 

We’ll try of what her metal’s made.” 

A cheer was our reply. 

“ Remember, boys, this flag of ours 
Has seldom left its place ; 

And where it falls, the deck it strikes 
Is covered with disgrace. 


“ I ask but this; or sink or swim, 

Or live or nobly die, 

My last sight upon earth may be 
To see that ensign fly! ” 

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass 
Came moving o’er the wave, 

As gloomy as a passing hearse, 

As silent as the grave. 

Her ports were closed; from stem to stern 
No sign of life appeared: 

We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, 
Joked—every thing, but feared. 

She reached our range. Our broadside rang 
Our heavy pivots roared; 

And shot and shell, a fire of hell, 

Against her side we poured. 


237 







238 


GEORGE HENRY BOKER. 


God’s mercy! from her sloping roof 
The iron tempest glanced, 

As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, 

And round her leaped and danced ; 

Or when against her dusky hull 
W e struck a fair, full blow, 

The mighty, solid iron globes 
Were crumbled up like snow. 

On, on, with fast increasing speed, 

The silent monster came, 

Though all our starboard battery 
Was one long line of flame. 

She heeded not; no guns she fired ; 

Straight on our bows she bore: 

Through riving plank and crashing frame 
Her furious way she tore. 

Alas! our beautiful, keen bow, 

That in the fiercest blast 
So gently folded back the seas, 

They hardly felt we passed. 

Alas! alas! my Cumberland, 

That ne’er knew grief before, 

To be so gored, to feel so deep 
The tusk of that sea-boar! 

Once more she backward drew apace ; 

Once more our side she rent, 

Then, in the wantonness of hate, 

Her broadside through us sent. 

The dead and dying round us lay, 

But our foeman lay abeam ; 

Her open port-holes maddened us, 

We fired with shout and scream. 

We felt our vessel settling fast; 

We knew our time was brief; 

“ Ho! man the pumps! ” But they who worked 
And fought not, wept with grief. 

From captain down to powder-boy, 

No hand was idle then : 

Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, 

Fought on like sailor men. 

And when a gun’s crew lost a hand, 

Some bold marine stepped out, 

And jerked his braided jacket off, 

And hauled the gun about. 


Our forward magazine was drowned, 

And up from the sick-bay 
Crawled out the wounded, red with blood, 
And round us gasping lay;— 

Yes, cheering, calling us by name, 
Struggling with failing breath 
To keep their shipmates at the post 
Where glory strove with death. 

With decks afloat and powder gone, 

The last broadside we gave 
From the guns’ heated iron lips 
Burst out beneath the wave. 

So sponges, rammers, and handspikes— 

As men-of-war’s men should— 

We placed within their proper racks, 

And at our quarters stood. 

“ Up to the spar deck! save yourselves! ” 
Cried Selfridge. “ Up, my men! 

God grant that some of us may live 
To fight yon ship again! ” 

We turned: we did not like to go; 

Yet staying seemed but vain, 

Knee-deep in water; so we left; 

Some swore, some groaned with pain. 

We reached the deck. There Randall stood: 

“ Another turn, men—so! ” 

Calmly he aimed his pivot gun : 

“ Now, Tenny, let her go! ” 

It did our sore hearts good to hear 
The song our pivot sang, 

As rushing on from wave to wave 
The whirring bomb-shell sprang. 

Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, 

And waved his cap in sport; 

“Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell 
Go through an open port! ” 

It was our last, our deadliest shot; 

The deck was overflown ; 

The poor ship staggered, lurched to port, 
And gave a living groan. 

Down, down, as headlong through the waves 
Our gallant vessel rushed ; 

A thousand gurgling watery sounds 
Around my senses gushed. 



GEORGE HENRY BOKER. 


239 


Then I remembered little more; 

One look to heaven I gave, 

Where, like an angel’s wing, I saw 
Our spotless ensign wave. 

I tried to cheer. I cannot say 
Whether I swam or sank ; 

A blue mist closed around my eyes, 
And everything was blank. 

When I awoke, a soldier lad, 

All dripping from the sea, 

With two great tears upon his cheeks, 
Was bending over me. 


I tried to speak. He understood 
The wish I could not speak. 

He turned me. There, thank God! the flag 
Still fluttered at the peak! 

And there, while thread shall hang to thread 
Oh, let that ensign fly! 

The noblest constellation set 
Against the northern sky— 

A sign that we who live may claim 
The peerage of the brave ; 

A monument that needs no scroll, 

For those beneath the wave. 


DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 

MAJOR-GENERAL PHILIP KEARNEY, KILLED AT CHANTILLY, VA., SEPT. 1, 1862. 


C LOSE his eyes; work is done! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon or set of sun. 

Hand of man or kiss of woman ? 

Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What cares he ? he cannot know; 
Lay him low! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 
Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 

Sleep forever and forever. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What care he ? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low! 


Fold him in his country’s stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley! 
What to him are all our wars ? 

What but death-bemocking folly! 

Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow! 

What cares he! he cannot know; 
Lay him low! 

Leave him to God’s watching eye ; 

Trust him to the hand that made him, 
Mortal love weeps idly by : 

God alone has power to aid him. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What cares he! he cannot know ; 
Lay him low! 





Chauncey Mitchell Depew. 

Orator and Statesman. 


. DEPEW is a man of broad and liberal education. He was 
born in Peekskill, N. Y., April 23, 1834. Even in bis boy¬ 
hood he was a gifted declaimer, and gave prophecy then of his 
distinguished career as an orator. The old saying that “ the 
boy is the father to the man ” is illustrated in his case. He 
graduated from Yale College in 1856, having taken high rank 
during his course, especially in the department of rhetoric and oratory. 
Many were the contests he had in college, and many were the times that 
he emerged from them with complete success. His social disposition, his 
breezy manner, his happy knack of merry-making and his fund of anec¬ 
dote, rendered him a general favorite. 

In 1858 he began practicing law, considering that this profession 
furnished the widest opportunities for such abilities as he could command. 
His public career as an orator was begun in 1856 in the Fremont cam¬ 
paign. He became widely known throughout the eastern part of New 
York for his pithy and eloquent stump-speeches, and very soon found 
himself in favor with the older leaders of the party. His youth, his self- 
possession, his fluency, his grasp of the subjects he treated, his unbounded 
enthusiasm, drew immediate attention and marked a coming man. As 
an after-dinner speaker Mr. Depew has always been considered without a 
rival. 

In 1861 he was sent to the Legislature of New York, and two years 
later he was elected Secretary of State, declining a re-election two years 
subsequently. He found it necessary to devote his time somewhat exclu¬ 
sively to his profession, considering that this was his legitimate calling, 
and to pursue it would prove of lasting benefit to him in the end. In 
1866 he was chosen attorney for the New York and Harlem Railroad, 
and, three years later, when the railroad was consolidated with the New 
York Central, he became general counsel of the company. He was 
elected second Vice-President of the Central Railroad in 1882, and the 
following year President of the “ Vanderbilt roads.” 

240 






CHAUNCEY MITCHELL DEPEW. 


241 


In 1884 the United States senatorship was offered to Mr. Depew, but 
business and professional engagements compelled him to decline the 
honor. The delegates from New York voted unanimously for his nomi¬ 
nation for the presidency in the National Republican Convention of 1888. 
He withdrew his name, however, and four years later, in one of his most 
captivating speeches, he presented the name of President Harrison to the 
Convention for a second nomination. Mr. Harrison had already tendered 
him the position of Secretary of State in his Cabinet after Mr. Blaine 
resigned. 

In 1899 Mr. Depew was elected United States Senator for New York, 
and accepted the office. 

In person Mr. Depew is above the medium height, has prominent 
features and a clear, penetrating voice that can be heard by the largest 
audiences. 


ANDRE AND HALE. 


A NDRE’S story is the one overmastering 
romance of the Revolution. American 
and English literature are full of elo¬ 
quence and poetry in tribute to his memory 
and sympathy for his fate. After a lapse of 
a hundred years there is no abatement of 
absorbing interest. In his failure, the infant 
republic escaped the dagger with which he 
was feeling for its heart, and the crime was 
drowned in tears for his untimely end. 

His youth and beauty, his skill with pen 
and pencil, his effervescing spirits and mag¬ 
netic disposition, the brightness of his life, the 
calm courage in the gloom of his death, his 
early love and disappointment, and the image 
of his lost Honora hid in his mouth when 
captured in Canada, with the exclamation, 
“ That saved, I care not for the loss of all the 
rest,” and nestling in his bosom when he was 
slain, surrounded him with a halo of poetry 
and pity which have secured for him what he 
most sought and could never have won in 
battles and sieges—a fame and recognition 
which have outlived that of all the generals 
under whom he serv( d. 

Are kings only grateful, and do republics 
forget ? Is fame a 1 ravesty, and the judgment 
of mankind a farce ? America had a parallel 
16 


case in Captain Nathan Hale. Of the same 
age as Andre, he graduated at Yale college 
with high honors, enlisted in the patriot cause 
at the beginning of the contest, and secured 
the love and confidence of all about him. 
When none else would go on a most import¬ 
ant and perilous mission, he volunteered, and 
was captured by the British. 

While Andre received every kindness, 
courtesy and attention, and was fed from 
Washington’s table, Hale was thrust into a 
noisome dungeon in the sugar-house. While 
Andre was tried by a board of officers, and 
had ample time and every facility for defence, 
Hale was summarily ordered to execution the 
next morning. While Andre’s last wishes 
and bequests were sacredly followed, the 
infamous Cunningham tore from Hale his 
letters to his mother and sister, and asked 
him what he had to say. “All I have to 
say,” was Hale’s reply, “is that I regret I 
have but one life to lose for my country.” 
His death was concealed for months, because 
Cunningham said he did not want the rebels 
to know they had a man who could die so 
bravely. 

And yet, while Andre rests in that grand¬ 
est of mausoleums, where the proudest of 




242 


CHAUNCEY MITCHELL DEPEW. 


nations garners the remains and perpetuates 
the memories of its most eminent and hon¬ 
ored, the name and deeds of Nathan Hale 
have passed into oblivion, and only a simple 
tomb in a village churchyard marks his 
resting-place. The dying declarations of 
Andre and Hale express the animating spirit 
of their several armies, and teach why, with 
all their power, England could not conquer 


America. “ I call upon you to witness that I 
die like a brave man,” said Andre, and he 
spoke from British and Hessian surround¬ 
ings, seeking only glory and pay. “ I regret 
that I have only one life to lose for my coun¬ 
try,” said Hale; and with him and his 
comrades self was forgotten in that absorbing, 
passionate patriotism which pledges fortune, 
honor and life to the sacred cause. 


WASHINGTON’S COUNTRY. 


B LOT out from the page of history the 
names of all the great actors of his time 
in the drama of nations, and preserve 
the name of Washington, and the century 
would be renowned. 

We stand to-day upon the dividing line be¬ 
tween the first and second century of constitu¬ 
tional government. There are no clouds over¬ 
head and no convulsions under our feet. We 
reverently return thanks to Almighty God 
for the past, and with confident and hopeful 
promise march upon sure ground toward the 
future. The simple facts of these hundred 
years paralyze the imagination, and we con¬ 
template the vast accumulations of the century 
with awe and pride. Our population has 
grown from four to sixty-five millions. Its 
centre, moving westward five hundred miles 
since 1789, is eloquent with the founding of 
cities and the birth of States. New settle¬ 
ments clearing the forests and subduing the 
prairies and adding four millions to the few 
thousands of farms which were the support of 
Washington’s republic, create one of the great 
granaries of the world and open exhaustless 
reservoirs of national wealth. 

The flower of the youth of the nations of 
continental Europe are conscripted from pro¬ 
ductive industries and drilling in camps. 
Vast armies stand in battle array along the 
frontiers, and a Kaiser’s whim or a minister’s 
mistake may precipitate the most destructive 
war of modern times. Both monarchial and 
republican governments are seeking safety in 
the repression and suppression of opposition 
and criticism. The volcanic forces of demo¬ 
cratic aspiration and socialistic revolt are rap¬ 
idly increasing and threaten peace and se¬ 


curity. We turn from these gathering storms 
to the British Isles and find their people in 
the throes of a political crisis involving the 
form and substance of their government, and 
their statesmen far from confident that the en¬ 
franchised and unprepared masses will wisely 
use their power But for us no army exhausts 
our resources nor consumes our youth. Our 
navy must needs increase in order that the 
protecting flag may follow the expanding com¬ 
merce, which is to successfully compete in all 
the markets of the world. The sun of our 
destiny is still rising, and its rays illuminate 
vast territories as yet unoccupied and unde¬ 
veloped, and which are to be the happy homes 
of millions of people. 

Our institutions furnish the full equipment 
of shield and spear for the battles of freedom, 
and absolute protection against every danger 
which threatens the welfare of the people will 
always be found in the intelligence which ap¬ 
preciates their value, and the courage and 
morality with which their powers are exer¬ 
cised. The spirit of Washington fills the ex¬ 
ecutive office. Presidents may not rise to the 
full measure of his greatness, but they must 
not fall below his standard of public duty and 
obligation. His life and character, conscien¬ 
tiously studied and thoroughly understood by 
coming generations, will be for them a liberal 
education for private life and public station, 
for citizenship and patriotism, for love and 
devotion to Union and Liberty. With their 
inspiring past and splendid present the people 
of these United States, with an abiding trust 
in the stability and elasticity of their Consti¬ 
tution and an abounding faith in themselves, 
hail the coming century with hope and joy. 






Henry Clay. 

America’s Peerless Orator. 


HEN reference is made to America’s greatest orators it is cus¬ 
tomary to mention the name of Henry Clay among the very 
first. He was frequently called, “The Mill Boy of the 
Slashes,” from the fact that he was a poor boy and was born 
in a district in Virginia called “ the Slashes.” The date of 
his birth was April 12th, 1777, and he died at Washington, 
June, 1852, greatly lamented by the whole country. 

He served successively in the Kentucky Legislature, State Senate, 
United States House of Representatives and Senate; and was one of four 
candidates for president in 1824, and also a candidate in 1844, being de¬ 
feated both times. He said he would rather be right than to be President. 

In person, Mr. Clay was tall and slender, had a voice of wonderful 
range and sympathy, was remarkably easy and graceful in manner, and 
few orators who ever lived possessed such persuasive power. “ Take him 
for all in all,” says Parton, “ we must regard him as the first of American 
orators ; but posterity will not assign him that rank, because posterity 
will not hear that matchless voice, will not see those large gestures, those 
striking attitudes, that grand manner, which gave to second-rate compo¬ 
sition first-rate effect. His speeches will long be interesting as the relics 
of a magnificent and dazzling personality, and for the light they cast 
upon the history of parties.” 



SHALL GREECE BE INDEPENDENT? 


A RE we so low, so base, so despicable, that 
we may not express our horror, articu¬ 
late our detestation of the most brutal 
and atrocious war that ever stained the earth, 
or shocked high Heaven with the ferocious 
deeds of a brutal soldiery, set on by the clergy 
and followers of a fanatical and inimical 
religion, rioting in excess of blood and butch¬ 
ery, at the mere details of which the heart 
sickens. If the great mass of Christendom 


can look coolly and calmly on while all this 
is perpetrated on a Christian people, in their 
own vicinity, in their very presence, let us, at 
least show that in this distant extremity there 
is still some sensibility and sympathy for 
Christian wrongs and sufferings; that there 
are still feelings which can kindle into indig¬ 
nation at the oppression of a people endeared 
to us by every ancient recollection, and every 
modern tie. 


243 





244 


HENRY CLAY. 


But, sir, it is not first and chiefly for 
Greece that I wish to see this measure adopted. 
It will give them but little aid—that aid 
purely of a moral kind. It is, indeed, sooth¬ 
ing and solacing, in distress, to hear the 
accents of a friendly voice. We know this as 
a people. But, sir, it is principally and 
mainly for America herself, for the credit and 
character of our common country, that I hope 
to see this resolution pass; it is for our own 
unsullied name that I feel. 

What appearance, sir, on the page of history, 
would a record like that make:—“In the 
month of January, in the year of our Lord 
and Saviour, 1824, while all European Christ¬ 
endom beheld with cold, unfeeling apathy the 
unexampled wrongs and inexpressible misery 
of Christian Greece, a proposition was made 
in the Congress of the United States—almost 
the sole, the last, the greatest repository of 
human hope and of human freedom, the rep¬ 
resentatives of a nation capable of bringing 
into the field a million of bayonets—while the 
freemen of that nation were spontaneously 
expressing its deep-toned feeling, its fervent 
prayer for Grecian success; while the whole 
continent was rising, by one simultaneous 
motion, solemnly and anxiously supplicating 


and invoking the aid of Heaven to spare 
Greece, and to invigorate her arms; while 
temples and senate-houses will be resounding 
with one burst of generous sympathy—in the 
year of our Lord and Saviour—that Saviour 
alike of Christian Greece and of us, a propo¬ 
sition was offered in the American Congress, 
to send a messenger to Greece to inquire into 
her state and condition, with an expression of 
our good wishes and our sympathies—and it 
was rejected! ” 

Go home, if you dare—go home, if you 
can—to your constituents, and tell them that 
you voted it dowu! Meet, if you dare, the 
appalling countenances of those who sent you 
here, and tell them you shrank from the 
declaration of your own sentiments; that, you 
cannot tell how, but that some unknown 
dread, some indescribable apprehension, some 
indefinable danger, affrighted you; that the 
spectres of cimeters and crowns, and crescents 
gleamed before you; and that you suppressed 
all the noble feelings prompted by religion, by 
liberty, by national independence, and by 
humanity! I cannot bring myself to believe 
that such will be the feeling of a majority of 
this House. 


DANGER OF MILITARY SUPREMACY. 


R ECALL to your recollection the free 
nations which have gone before us. 
Where are they now ? 

“ Gone glimmering through the dream of 
things that were, 

The school-boy’s tale, the wonder of an hour.” 

And how have they lost their liberties ? If 
we could transport ourselves to the ages when 
Greece and Rome flourished in their greatest 
prosperity, and mingling in the throng should 
ask a Grecian if he did not fear that some 
daring military chieftain covered with glory, 


some Philip or Alexander would one day 
overthrow the liberties of his country, the 
confident and indignant Grecian would ex¬ 
claim : “ No ! no! we have nothing to fear 

from heroes; our liberties will be eternal.” 
If a Roman citizen had been asked if he did 
not fear that the conqueror of the Gaul might 
establish a throne upon the ruins of public 
liberty, he would have instantly repelled the 
unjust insinuation. Yet Greece fell; Csesar 
passed the Rubicon, and the patriotic arm 
even of Brutus could not preserve the liberties 
of his devoted country. 





Wendell Phillips. 

“ The Silver-Tongued Orator.” 


GENTLEMAN talking.” In this way has one of our most 
famous orators been described. He was a Massachusetts 
man, a son of one of the first old Boston families, whose 
stately mansion is still standing on the lower corner of 
Beacon and Walnut Streets. It was here that Wendell was 
born, in the same year that another great man—Charles 
Sumner—came into a family that lived not far away, where the rear of 
Bowdoin school-house now stands. 

Wendell Phillips’s father was a wealthy and much-respected man, 
with a great deal of sound sense and wisdom. He trained his children 
after a rule: “Ask no man to do anything that you are able to do for 
yourself.” This is the reason that by the time Wendell was grown up, 
he knew something of almost every important trade then carried on in 
New England. He was a student in the famous old Latin School at the 
same time Sumner was there, and before he was sixteen he entered Har¬ 
vard College. He graduated in 1831, in the same year with John Lothrop 
Motley, the historian; and we are told that they were then two of the 
finest young men in Boston, with personal beauty, elegance, and a good 
place in the best society. 

Phillips was admitted to the bar in 1834, but soon became a member 
of the Anti-Slavery Society and developed into a reformer. The slavery 
question was the sole topic of political discussion. When Elijah P. 
Lovejoy was murdered at Alton, Illinois, while defending his press from 
a pro-slavery mob, a thrill of horror ran through the land. 

An indignation meeting was called at Faneuil Hall by Doctor Chan- 
ning, and many people were roused against this murder who had been 
indifferent before, or even fashionably opposed to the whole movement. 
It was thought that all in the assembly were of one mind about the crime, 
until Mr. Austin, Attorney General of the State, arose and said that 
Lovejoy died as the fool dieth, and compared the Alton mob to the men 
who threw the tea into Boston Harbor. The meeting broke into applause, 

245 




246 


WENDELL PHILLIPS. 


and seemed ready to go with Austin, when Wendell Phillips—somewhat 
known as an Abolitionist—began to speak, amid hisses that almost 
drowned his opening words: “ When I heard the gentleman lay down 
principles that placed the murderers of Alton side by side with Otis and 
Hancock, with Quincy and Adams, I thought these pictured lips (point¬ 
ing to their portraits, which hang upon the walls) would have broken 
into voice to rebuke the recreant American, the slanderer of the dead.” 

That moment turned the tide of the meeting—the people remem¬ 
bered their object in coming together, they recalled the fact that a band 
of ruffians had taken on themselves to interfere with America’s glory— 
the freedom of the press—had cried down the rights of humanity, and 
had taken the life of their fellow-citizen in cold blood. 

This speech turned the great current of thought in Boston, in New 
England, and throughout the North. It also made the fame of Wendell 
Phillips as an orator, and placed him as one of the foremost among the 
anti-slavery leaders. 

He now took up the cause with the most earnest of its workers, and 
became Garrison’s right-hand helper. For it he gave up his place in 
society, his friendships, his wealth, his profession, and even refused to 
vote, or in any way call himself a citizen of the United States so long as 
its Constitution provided for slavery. He made himself poor for the 
cause he worked in, and of what money he earned by lecturing he gave 
all away that he could spare. The fame of his eloquence always drew 
large audiences, and was an important money-aid to his society, to say 
nothing of his great influence upon the minds of those who heard him. 

“ He had his faults, they said, but they were faults 
Of head and not of heart—his sharp assaults 
Flung seeming heedless from his quivering bow, 

And needless striking either friend or foe, 

Were launched with eyes that saw not foe or friend, 

But only shining far, some goal or end. 

“ That compassed once, should bring God’s saving grace 
To purge and purify the human race— 

The measure meted out he took, 

And blow for blow received without a look, 

Without a sigh of conscious hurt or hate, 

To stir the tranquil calmness of his state. 

“ Born on the heights and in the purple bred, 

He chose to walk the lowly ways instead, 

That he might lift the wretched and defend 
The rights of those who languished for a friend, 

So many years he spent in listening 
To those sad eries of wrong and suffering.” 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 


247 


He was an able scholar, a fine orator, and a most perfect gentleman. 
His tall, well-shaped figure, his manly bearing, and courteous manners 
won respect and admiration from all who saw him, even though they 
knew not his name or the sublime character he bore. Mr. Phillips was 
born November 29, 1811, in Boston, where he died, February 2, 1884. 


TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE. 

Toussaint L’Ouverture, who has been pronounced one of the renowned statesmen and 
generals of the nineteenth century, saved his master and family by hurrying them on board 
a vessel at the insurrection of the negroes of Hayti. He then joined the negro army, and 
soon found himself at their head. Napoleon sent a fleet with French veterans, with orders 
to bring him to Fra nee at all hazzards. But all the skill of the French soldiers could not 
subdue the negro army; and they finally made a treaty, placing Toussaint L’Ouverture 
governor of the island. The negroes no sooner disbanded their army, than a squad of 
soldiers seized Toussaint by night, and taking him on board a vessel hurried him to France. 
There he was placed in a dungeon, and finally starved to death. 


I F I were to tell you the story of Napoleon, 
I should take it from the lips of French¬ 
men, who find no language rich enough 
to paint the great captain of the nineteenth 
century. Were I to tell you the story of Wash¬ 
ington, I should take it from your hearts—you, 
who think no marble white enough on which 
to carve the name of the Father of this coun¬ 
try. But I am to tell you the story of a negro, 
Toussaint L’Ouverture, who has left hardly 
one written line. I am to glean it from the 
reluctant testimony of his enemies, men who 
despised him because he was a negro and a 
slave, hated him because he had beaten them 
in battle. 

Cromwell manufactured his own army. Na¬ 
poleon, at the age of twenty-seven, was placed 
at the head of the best troops Europe ever saw. 
Cromwell never saw an army till he was forty ; 
this man never saw a soldier till he was fifty. 
Cromwell manufactured his own army—out of 
what ? Englishmen—the best blood in Europe. 
Out of the middle class of Englishmen—the 
best blood of the island. And with it he con¬ 
quered what? Englishmen—their equals. 
This man manufactured his army out of what? 
Out of what you call the despicable race of 
negroes, debased, demoralized by two hun¬ 
dred years of slavery, one hundred thousand 
of them imported into the island within four 
years, unable to speak a dialect intelligible 


even to each other. Yet out of this mixed, 
and, as you say, despicable mass he forged a 
thunderbolt and hurled it at what ? At the 
proudest blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and 
sent him home conquered; at the most war¬ 
like blood in Europe, the French, and put 
them under his feet; at the pluckiest blood in 
Europe, the English, and they skulked home 
to Jamaica. 

Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, 
go back with me to the commencement of the 
century, and select what statesman you please. 
Let him be either American or European; 
crown his temples with the silver locks of 
seventy years, and show me the man of Saxon 
lineage for whom his most sanguine admirer 
will wreathe a laurel, rich as embittered foes 
have placed on the brow of this inspired black 
of St. Domingo. 

Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go 
to Hayti, and stand on those fifty thousand 
graves of the best soldiers France ever had, 
and ask them what they think of the negro’s 
sword. 

I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon 
made his way to empire over broken oaths and 
through a sea of blood. This man never 
broke his word. I would call him Cromwell, 
but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state 
he founded went down with him into his grave. 
I would call him Washington, but the great 




248 


WENDELL PHILLIPS. 


Virginian held slaves This man risked his 
empire rather than permit the slave-trade in 
the humblest village of his dominions. 

You think me a fanatic, for you read history, 
not with your eyes but with your prejudices. 
But fifty years hence, when Truths get a hear¬ 
ing, the Muse of history will put Phocion for 


the Greek, Brutus for the Roman, Hampden 
for England, Fayette for France, choose Wash¬ 
ington as the bright consummate flower of our 
earliest civilization, then, dipping her pen in 
the sunlight, will write in the clear blue, above 
them all, the name of the soldier, the states¬ 
man, the martyr, Toussaint L’Ouyerture. 


THE CHARACTER 

T matters very little what spot may have 
been the birthplace of Washington. No 
people can claim, no country can ap¬ 
propriate him. The boon of Providence to 
the human race, his fame is eternity, and his 
residence creation. Though it was the de¬ 
feat of our arms, and the disgrace of our 
policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which 
he had his origin. If the heavens thundered, 
and the earth rocked, yet, when the storm 
had passed, how pure was the climate that it 
cleared; how bright, in the brow of the firma¬ 
ment, was the planet which it revealed to us! 

In the production of Washington, it does 
really appear as if Nature was endeavoring 
to improve upon herself, and that all the vir¬ 
tues of the ancient world were but so many 
studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. 
Individual instances, no doubt, there were, 
splendid exemplifications of some singular 
qualification; Caesar was merciful, Scipio was 
continent, Hannibal was patient; but it was 
reserved for Washington to bind them all in 
one, and, like the lovely masterpiece of the 
Grecian artist, to exhibit, in one glow of as¬ 
sociated beauty, the pride of every model, 
and the perfection of every master. 

As a general, he marshalled the peasant 
into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the 
absence of experience; as a statesman, he 
enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the 
most comprehensive system of general ad¬ 
vantage; and such was the wisdom of his 


OF WASHINGTON. 

views, and the philosophy of his councils, 
that to the soldier, and the statesman he al¬ 
most added the character of the sage! A 
conqueror, he was untainted with the crime 
of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from 
any stain of treason; for aggression commenced 
the contest and his country called him to the 
command. 

Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity 
stained, victory returned it. If he had paused 
here, history might have doubted what sta¬ 
tion to assign him; whether at the head of 
her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or her 
patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his 
career, and banishes all hesitation. 

Who, like Washington, after having eman¬ 
cipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, and 
preferred the retirement of domestic life to 
the adoration of a land he might almost be 
said to have created ? 

“ How shall we rank thee upon Glory’s page, 
Thou more than soldier, and just less than 
sage? 

All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, 
Far less, than all thou hast forborne to be!” 

Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be 
accused of partiality in his estimate of Amer- 
rica. Happy, proud America! The light¬ 
nings of heaven yielded to your philosophy! 
The temptations of earth could not seduce 
your patriotism. 







Henry Woodfin Grady. 

Far-famed for His Eloquence. 


GRADY, who was called “ the rising star of the South,” was 
born in Athens, Ga., May 17, 1851, and died in Atlanta, Ga., 
December 23, 1889. No written memorial can indicate the 
strong hold which this young orator had upon the Southern 
people. Although he died at the early age of thirty-eight, his 
fame was world-wide, and there was perhaps no man in the 
nation more honored and respected, both North and South, than was this 
phenomenally gifted writer and speaker during the last few years of 
his life, which was devoted to the broadest patriotism. 

On the 21st of December, 1887, Mr. Grady, in response to an urgent 
invitation, delivered an address at a banquet of the New England 
Club, New York, which attracted wide attention. This, and similar 
speeches, did much to wipe out the prejudices engendered by the war, 
bridge the bloody chasm, and draw the two sections into a closer union. 
For Mr. Grady stood for that pacific sentiment, which, rising above all 
party strife and clamor, seeks to unite, in feeling and purpose, all parts 
of our common country. 

He drew the admiration of the men who differed from him, or at least 
wished to differ from him, but found it impossible to do so when brought 
under the power of his eloquent, logical speeches and his magnetic per¬ 
sonality. For a few years—and alas ! for a few years only—he was the 
grandest leader we have known for a generation. His father lost his life 
while fighting for the Confederate cause, but on the very grave of his sire 
and on the total wreck of the family fortune, the son gave noble expres¬ 
sion to a patriotism that embraced the whole country. He was too broad 
and large for a state or a section; he was the nation’s own man, and was 
above all partisan bigotry. 

Mr. Grady graduated from the University of Georgia at the age of 
seventeen; afterward attended the University of Virginia; entered the 
field of journalism, in which he immediately became prominent; received 
a loan of twenty thousand dollars from Cyrus W. Field, of New York, to 

249 






250 


HENRY WOODFIN GRADY. 


buy a controlling interest in the “Atlanta Constitution,” and made that 
paper the leading one of the South. He contributed a series of articles 
on “ The New South ” to the New York “ Ledger.” 

His brilliant career was cut short at the age of thirty-eight. A fund 
of over twenty thousand dollars was collected to build a monument to his 
memory, and with imposing ceremonies it was unveiled at Atlanta, Geor¬ 
gia, October 21, 1891, 


REGARD FOR THE NEGRO RACE. 

EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH ON THE RACE PROBLEM AT A BANQUET OF THE 
BOSTON MERCHANTS’ ASSOCIATION. 


T HE resolute, clear-headed, broad-minded 
men of the South—the men whose genius 
made glorious every page of the first 
seventy years of American history—whose 
courage and fortitude you tested in four years 
of the fiercest war—realize, as you cannot, 
what this race problem means—what they 
owe to this kindly and dependent race. Nor 
are they wholly to blame for the presence of 
slavery. The slave-ships sailed from your 
ports—the slaves once worked in your fields, 
and you sold them to the South. Neither of 
us now defends the traffic, nor the institution. 

The love the whites of the South feel for 
the negro race you cannot measure nor com¬ 
prehend. As I attest it here, the spirit of my 
old black mammy from her home up there 
looks down to bless, and through the tumult 
of this night steals the sweet music of her 
croonings as thirty years ago she held me in 
her black arms and led me smiling into sleep. 
This scene vanishes as I speak, and I catch a 
vision of an old Southern home, with its lofty 
pillars, and its white pigeons fluttering down 
through the golden air. 

I see women with strained and anxious 
faces, and children alert yet helpless. I see 
night come down with its dangers and its ap¬ 
prehensions, and in a big homely room I feel 
on my tired head the touch of loving hands— 
now worn and wrinkled, but fairer to me yet 
than the hands of mortal woman, and stronger 
yet to lead me than the hands of mortal man 
—as they lay a mother’s blessing there while 
at her knees—the truest altar I yet have found 


—I thank God that she is safe in her sanctu¬ 
ary, because her slaves, sentinel in the silent 
cabin or guard at her chamber door, puts a 
black man’s loyalty between her and danger. 

I catch another vision. The crisis of battle 
—a soldier struck, staggering, fallen. I see a 
slave, scuffling through the smoke, winding his 
black arms about the fallen form, reckless of 
the hurtling death—bending his trusty face to 
catch the words that tremble on the stricken 
lips, so wrestling meantime with agony that 
he would lay down his life in his master’s 
stead. I see him by the weary bedside, min¬ 
istering with uncomplaining patience, praying 
with all his humble heart that God will lift 
his master up, until death comes in mercy and 
in honor to still the soldier’s agony and seal 
the soldier’s life. 

I see him by the open grave, mute, motion¬ 
less, uncovered, suffering for the death of him 
who in life fought against his freedom. I see 
him when the mound is heaped and the great 
drama of his life is closed, turn away and with 
downcast eyes and uncertain step start out 
into new and strange fields, faltering, strug¬ 
gling, but moving on, until his shambling 
figure is lost in the light of this better and 
brighter day. And from the grave comes a 
voice saying, “ Follow him! Put your arms 
about him in his need, even as he put his 
about me. Be his friend as he was mine.” 
And out into this new world—strange to me as 
to him, dazzling, bewildering both—I follow! 
And may God forget my people—when they 
forget these. 





HENRY WOODFIN GRADY. 


251 


THE NEW SOUTH. 

FROM AN ADDRESS DELIVERED AT A BANQUET OF THE NEW ENGLAND CLUB, 

NEW YORK. 


I STAND here, Mr. President, to profess no 
new loyalty. When General Lee, whose 
heart was the temple of our hopes and 
whose arm was clothed with our strength, 
renewed his allegiance to the government 
at Appomattox, he spoke from a heart too 
great to be false, and he spoke for every honest 
man from Maryland to Texas. From that 
day to this, Hamilcar has nowhere in the 
South sworn young Hannibal to hatred and 
vengeance—but everywhere to loyalty and to 
love. 

As the New South stands full-statured and 
equal among the people of the earth, breath¬ 
ing the keen air and looking out upon an 
expanding horizen, she understands that her 
emancipation came because in the inscrutable 
wisdom of God her honest purpose was crossed 
and her brave armies were beaten. This is 
said in no spirit of time-serving and apology. 
The South has nothing to take back; nothing 
for which she has excuses to make. In my 
native town of Athens is a monument that 
crowns its central hills—a plain white shaft. 

Deep cut into its shining sides is a name 
dear to me above the names of men, that of a 
brave and simple man who died in brave and 
simple faith. Not for all the glories of New 
England, from Plymouth Rock all the way, 
would I exchange the heritage he left me in 
his patriot’s death. But, sir, speaking from 
the shadow of that memory, which I honor as 
I do nothing else on earth, I say that the 
cause in which he suffered and for which he 
gave his life was adjudged by higher and 
fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad 
that the omniscient God held the balance of 
battle in His almighty hand and that the 
American Union was saved from the wreck 
of war. 

Witness the soldier standing at the base of 
a Confederate monument above the graves of 
his comrades, his empty sleeve tossing in the 


April wind, adjuring the young men about 
him to serve as honest and loyal citizens the 
government against which their fathers fought. 
This message, delivered from that sacred pres¬ 
ence has gone home to the hearts of my fel¬ 
lows! And, sir, I declare here, if physical 
courage be always equal to human aspira¬ 
tions, that they would die, sir, if need be, to 
restore this Republic their fathers fought to 
dissolve! 

This message, Mr. President, comes to you 
from consecrated ground. What answer has 
New England to this message! Will she per¬ 
mit the prejudices of war to remain in the 
hearts of the conquerors, when it has died in 
the hearts of the conquered ? Will she trans¬ 
mit this prejudice to the next generation, that 
in hearts which never felt the generous ardor 
of conflict it may perpetuate itself? Will she 
withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand 
which straight from his soldier’s heart Grant 
offered to Lee at Appomattox ? Will she 
make the vision of a restored and happy peo¬ 
ple, which gathered about the couch of your 
dying captain, filling his heart with peace, 
touching his lips with praise, and glorifying 
his path to the grave—will she make this 
vision, on which the last sight of his expiring 
soul breathed, a benediction, or a cheat and a 
delusion ? 

If she does, the South, never abject in ask¬ 
ing for comradeship, must accept with dignity 
its refusal. But if she does not refuse to ac¬ 
cept in frankness and sincerity this message of 
good-will and friendship, then will the proph¬ 
ecy of Webster, delivered to this very Society 
forty years ago amid tremendous applause, be 
verified in its fullest and final sense, when he 
said: “ Standing hand to hand and clasping ’ 
hands, we should remain united as we have 
been for sixty years, citizens of the same coun¬ 
try, members of the same government, united, 
all united now and united forever.” 



George Perkins Morris. 

Renowned Lyric Poet. 


OPULAR as a song-writer, an author of unsullied taste, pure 
and deep feeling, issuing such productions as charm the 
average reader, Mr. Morris gained enviable distinction and 
must be considered as worthy of high rank. His well-known 
poem, “Woodman, Spare That Tree,” is enough of itself to 
perpetuate his name, while another entitled, “ My Mother’s 
Bible,” is no less charming and no less worthy to live in the hearts and 
homes of the people. One secret of his popularity was the selection of 
subjects that lie near to the heart of the average, thoughtful reader, thus 
enlisting his sympathies. 

Mr. Morris was born in Philadelphia in 1802. He became associate 
editor of the “ New York Mirror ” in 1823, an( ^ i n I ^44 one of the editors 
of “The Evening Mirror,” a literary journal. The old famous “Home 
Journal,” which had such a popular career and was really possessed of 
unusual merit, was founded by Mr. Morris in connection with N. P. 
Willis. This publication first saw the light in 1846, and the ability with 
which it was conducted is a matter of literary history. Conjointly with 
Mr. Willis, a volume was issued by Mr. Morris entitled, “ The Prose 
and Poetry of Europe and America.” Mr. Morris is the author of one 
drama, “ Briercliff,’’ and of poems which have had a wide circulation. 
He died in New York in 1864. 



MY MOTHER’S BIBLE. 


T HIS book is all that’s left me now— 
Tears will unbidden start— 

With faltering lip and throbbing brow 
I press it to my heart. 

For many generations past 
Here is our family tree; 

My mother’s hands this Bible clasped, 
She, dying, gave it me. 

252 


Ah ! well do I remember those 
Whose names these records bear ; 

Who round the hearthstone used to close, 
After the evening prayer, 

And speak of what these pages said 
In tones my heart would thrill! 
Though they are with the silent dead 
Here are they living still I 





GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS. 


253 


My father read this holy book 
To brothers, sisters, dear; 

How calm was my poor mother’s look, 
Who loved God’s word to hear! 

Her angel face—I see it yet! 

What thronging memories come! 
Again that little group is met 
Within the halls of home! 


Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I’ve tried: 

When all were false, I found thee true, 
My counsellor and guide. 

The mines of earth no treasures give 
That could this volume buy; 

In teaching me the way to live, 

It taught me how to die! 


WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 


W OODMAN, spare that tree! 

Touch not a single bough! 
In youth it sheltered me, 
And I’ll protect it now. 

’T was my forefather’s hand 
That placed it near his cot; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not! 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o’er land and sea, 

And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 

O, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies! 


When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade; 

In all their gushing joy 
Here too my sisters played. 

My mother kissed me here; 

My father pressed my hand— 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 
Close as thy bark, old friend! 
Here shall the wild-bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend, 
Old tree! the storm still brave! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While I’ve a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall hurt it not. 


THE PASTOR’S DAUGHTER. 


A N ivy-mantled cottage smiled, 

Deep-wooded near a streamlet’s side, 
Where dwelt the village pastor’s child, 
In all her maiden bloom and pride. 

Proud suitors paid their court and duty 
To this romantic sylvan beauty: 

Yet none of all the swains who sought her, 
Was worthy of the pastor’s daughter. 

The town-gallants crossed hill and plain, 

To seek the groves of her retreat, 

And many followed in her train, 

To lay their riches at her feet. 

But still, for all their arts so wary, 

From home they could not lure the fairy. 

A maid without a heart, they thought her, 
And so they left the pastor’s daughter. 


One balmy eve in dewy spring 
A bard became her father’s guest; 

He struck his harp, and every string 
To love vibrated in her breast. 

With that true faith which cannot falter, 
Her hand was given at the altar, 

And faithful was the heart he brought her 
To wedlock and the pastor’s daughter. 

How seldom learn the worldly gay, 

With all their sophistry and art, 

The sweet and gentle primrose-way 
To woman’s fond, devoted heart: 

They seek but never find the treasure, 
Although revealed in jet and azure. 

To them, like truth in wells of water, 

A fable is the pastor’s daughter. 







Richard Henry Dana. 

Poet and Essayist. 


HIS distinguished author was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, 
November 17, 1787, and was a son of Chief-Justice Francis 
Dana. He was educated at Harvard College, which he left 
without a degree in 1807, after which he studied law and was 
admitted to the bar of Boston in 1811. 

In 1814 he began to contribute to the “ North American 
Review,” of which he became associate editor in 1818. His first poem, 
published in 1821, was entitled “The Dying Raven.” In 1827 he pub¬ 
lished a remarkable poem to which he gave the name of “The Buc¬ 
caneer.” It exhibits a high grade of talent and was highly commended 
in “ Blackwood’s Magazine ” by Professor Wilson. “ We pronounce it,” 
he says, “ by far the most powerful and original of American poetical 
compositions. The power is Mr. Dana’s own, but the style—though 
he has made it his own, too—is colored by that of Wordsworth and 
Coleridge.” 

In 1833 he published an edition of his poems and prose writings? 
including “ The Buccaneer,” with some new poems and essays which 
originally appeared in “ The Idle Man,” a periodical issued in 1821-22. 
“ The Idle Man,” says William Cullen Bryant, “ notwithstanding the 
cold reception it met with from the public, we look upon as holding a 
place among the first productions of American literature.” Mr. Dana 
was popular as a lecturer on Shakespeare in Boston, New York and 
Philadelphia. He died February 2, 1879, after an active, useful and 
honored life. 



THE PLEASURE-BOAT. 


C OME, hoist the sail, the fast let go! 
They’re seated side by side ; 

Wave chases wave in pleasant flow ; 
The bay is fair and wide. 

The ripples lightly tap the boat, 

Loose! Give her to the wind! 

254 


She shoots ahead ; they’re all afloat; 
The strand is far behind. 

No danger reach so fair a crew! 

Thou goddess of the foam, 

I’ll ever pay thee worship due. 

If thou wilt bring them home. 







RICHARD HENRY DANA. 


£55 


Fair ladies, fairer than all the spray 
The prow is dashing wide, 

Soft breezes take you on your way, 

Soft flow the blessed tide. 

O, might I like those breezes be, 

And touch that arching brow, 

I’d dwell forever on the sea 
Where ye are floating now. 

The boat goes tilting on the waves ; 

The waves go tilting by; 

There dips the duck—her back she laves : 
O’erhead the sea-gulls fly. 

Now, like the gulls that dart for prey, 
The little vessel stoops; 

Now, rising, shoots along her way, 

Like them, in easy swoops. 

The sun falling on her sheet, 

It glitters like the drift, 

Sparkling, in scorn of summer’s heat, 
High up some mountain rift. 

The winds are fresh; she’s driving fast 
Upon the bending tide; 

The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast, 
Go with her side by side. 

Why dies the breeze away so soon ? 

Why hangs the pennant down ? 


THE LITTLE 

HOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice, 
And with that boding cry 
O’er the waves dost thou fly ? 

Oh! rather, bird, with me 
Through the fair land rejoice! 

The flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
As driven by a beating storm at sea : 

Thy cry is weak and scared, 

As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail— 

What does it bring to me ? 

Thou callest along the sand, and hauntest the 
surge, 

Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 


The sea is glass; the sun at noon— 

Nay, lady do not frown; 

For, see, the winged fisher’s plume 
Is painted on the sea; 

Below, a cheek of lovely bloom 
Whose eyes look up to thee. 

She smiles; thou need’st must smile on her 
And, see, beside her face 

A rich, white cloud that doth not stir 
What beauty, and what grace! 

And pictured beach of yellow sand, 

And peaked rock and hill, 

Change the smooth sea to fairy-land ; 
How lovely and how still! 

From that far isle the thresher’s flail 
Strikes close upon the ear : 

The leaping fish, the swinging sail 
Of yonder sloop, sound near. 

The parting sun sends out a glow 
Across the placid bay, 

Touching with glory all the show— 

A breeze! Up helm ! Away! 

Careening to the wind, they reach, 

With laugh and call, the shore. 

They’ve left their footprints on the beach, 
But them I hear no more. 


BEAOH-BIRD. 

With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore, 

One spirit did ye urge— 

The Mystery—the Word. 

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall, 
Old Ocean, art! A requiem o’er the dead 
From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells— 

Tells of man’s woe and fall, 

His sinless glory fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness 
Thy spirit never more. [bring 

Come, quit with me the shore 
For gladness, and the light 
Where birds of summer sing. 






Mary Abigail Dodge. 

Whose Pen-Name is “Gail Hamilton.” 



ISS DODGE is a striking example of an author who can write 
much without dilution, without descending into commonplaces, 
and who can pursue a long career of literary effort without 
incurring the criticism of failure. She was a woman of un¬ 
usual strength of mind, great industry, and resolution in 
grappling with the foremost questions of the day. Not that 
she aspired to be a reformer, but no popular question was left untouched 
by her vigorous pen, and it must be admitted that a good, hard, womanly 
sense is shown in nearly all of her writings. Her facility in the use of 
the pen was one of her characteristics. 

She was born in Hamilton, Massachusetts, about 1838. It will be 
readily seen that one part of her pen-name is the town in which she was 
born and the other is the last syllable of one of her given names. She 
was a cousin of the eminent statesman, James G. Blaine, was associated 
with him more or less in literary work, and after his death wrote and 
edited his biography, a work of rare merit, and one which is the chief 
authority upon the life and public services of Mr. Blaine. Her death 
occurred not long after finishing the biography of one of the foremost of 
modern Americans. 

Among the works of Miss Dodge are “ Country Living and Country 
Thinking,” published in 1862 ; “ Gala Days,” in 1863 ; “A New Atmos¬ 
phere,” 1864 5 “ Woman’s Wrongs : a Counter Irritant,” 1868 ; “ Battle 
of the Books,” 1870; “Woman’s Worth and Worthlessness,” 1871; 
“ Twelve Miles from a Lemon,” “ Sermons to the Clergy,” 1875 i “ What 
Think Ye of Christ?” “Wool-Gathering,” “Skirmishes and Sketches,” 
“ Our Common School System,” 1880 ; “ The Insuppressible Book,” 1885 
and “ The Washington Bible Class,’’ 1891. Miss Dodge died at Wash¬ 
ington in 1896. 

Miss Dodge had acknowledged merit as a writer. She saw distinctly 
her aim, and, without turning aside, pressed toward it with the full vigor 
of strong intellect sharpened by extensive culture. If it can be said that 

256 





MARY ABIGAIL DODGE. 


257 


we live in an age of shams, Miss Dodge cannot be held responsible for 
any of them, for there never was a person who believed less in humbug 
and hypocrisy and more in solid substantial principles and virtue. She 
has given works to our literature that will long survive her. 


A DAY’S SPORT. 

FROM “GALA DAYS.” 


S OME people have conscientious scruples 
about fishing. I respect them. I had 
them myself. Wantonly to destroy, for 
mere sport, the innocent life in lake or river, 
seemed to me a cruelty and a shame. But 
people must fish. Now, then, how shall your 
theory and practice be harmonized? Practice 
can’t yield. Plainly, theory must. A year 
ago I went out on a rock in the Atlantic 
Ocean, held a line—just to see how it seemed 
—and caught eight fishes; and every time a 
fish came up a scruple went down. Which 
facts will partially account for the eagerness 
with which I, one morning, seconded a proposal 
to go a-fishing in a river about fourteen miles 
away. 

They go to the woods, I hang my prospective 
trout on my retrospective rod and march river- 
wards. Halicarnassus, according to the old 
saw, “leaves this world and climbs a tree,” 
and, with jackknife, cord and perseverance, 
manufactures a fishing-rod, which he courte¬ 
ously offers to me, which I succinctly decline, 
informing him in no ambiguous phrase that I 
consider nothing beneath the best as good 
enough for me. Halicarnassus is convinced 
by my logic, overpowered by my rhetoric, 
and meekly yields up the best rod, though the 
natural man rebels. The bank of the river is 
rocky, steep, shrubby, and difficult of ascent 
or descent. Halicarnassus bids me tarry on 
the bridge, while he descends to reconnoitre. 
I am acquiescent, and lean over the railing 
awaiting the result of investigation. Hali¬ 
carnassus picks his way over rocks, sideways 
and zigzaggy along the bank, and down the 
river in search of fish. I grow tired of play¬ 
ing Cassabianca and steal behind the bridge, 
and pick my way over the rocks sidewise and 
zigzaggy along the bank and up the river, in 
17 


search of “fun;” practice irregular and in¬ 
describable gymnastics with variable success 
for half an hour or so. Shout from the bridge. 
I look up. Too far off to hear the words, but 
see Halicarnassus gesticulating furiously, and 
evidently laboring under great excitement. 
Retrograde as rapidly as circumstances will 
permit. Halicarnassus makes a speaking 
trumpet of his hands and roars, “I’vefound— 
a fish! Left—him for—you—to catch! come 
quick!” and plunging headlong down the 
bank disappears. I am touched to the heart 
by this sublime instance of self-denial and 
devotion, and scramble up to the bridge, and 
plunge down after him. Heel of boot gets 
tangled in hem of dress every third step— 
fishing-line in tree-top every second ; progress 
therefore not so rapid as could be desired. 
Reach the water at last. Step cautiously from 
rock to rock to the middle of the stream— 
balance on a pebble just large enough to plant 
both feet on, and just firm enough to make it 
worth while to run the risk—drop my line 
into the spot designated—a quiet, black little 
pool in the rushing river—see no fish, but 
have faith in Halicarnassus. 

“ Bite ? ” asks Halicarnassus, eagerly. 

“Not yet,” I answered, sweetly. Breath¬ 
less expectation. Lips compressed. Eyes 
fixed. Five minutes gone. 

“ Bite ? ” calls Halicarnassus from down the 
river. 

“ Not yet,” hopefully. 

“ Lower your line a little. I’ll come in a 
minute.” Line is lowered. Arms begin to 
ache. Rod suddenly bobs down. Snatch it 
up. Only an old stick. Splash it off con¬ 
temptuously. 

“ Bite ? ” calls Halicarnassus from afar. 






258 


MARY ABIGAIL DODGE. 


“No,” faintly responds Marius, amid the 
ruins of Carthage. 

“Perhaps he will, by and by,” suggests 
Halicarnassus encouragingly. Five minutes 
more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. 
Pebble shaky. Brain dizzy. Everything 
seems to be sailing down stream. Tempted 
to give it up, but look at the empty basket, 
think of the expectant party, and the eight 
cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience. 

“ Bite?” comes the distinct voice of Hali¬ 
carnassus, disappearing by a bend in the 
river. 

“ No !” I moan, trying to stand on one foot 
to rest the other, and ending by standing on 
neither; for the pebble quivers, convulses, and 
finally rolls over and expires: and only a 
vigorous leap and a sudden conversion of the 
fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me 
from an ignominious bath. Weary of the 
world, and lost to shame, I gather all my 
remaining strength, wind the line about the 
rod, poise it on high, hurl it out in the deepest 
and most unobstructed part of the stream, 
lie down upon the rock, pull my hat over my 
face, and dream, to the furling of the river, the 


singing of the birds, and the music of the 
wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, 
away. 

“Hullo! how many?” 

“ I start up wildly, and knock my hat oft 
into the water. Jump after it, at the immi¬ 
nent risk of going in myself, catch it by one 
of the strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.” 

“Asleep, I fancy?” says Halicarnassus, in¬ 
terrogatively. 

We walk silently toward the woods. We 
meet a small boy with a tin pan and thirty- 
six fishes in it. We accost him. 

“ Are these fishes for sale?” asks Halicar¬ 
nassus. 

“ Bet they be ! ” says small boy with energy. 

Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I 
look meaningly at Halicarnassus, and both 
look meaningly at our empty basket. “ Won’t 
you tell?” says Halicarnassus. “No; won’t 
you? ” Halicarnassus whistles, the fishes are 
transferred from pan to basket, and we Avalk 
away “ chirp as a cricket,” reach the sylvan 
party, and are speedily surrounded. 

“O what beauties! Who caught them? 
How many are there ? ” 





Joaquin Miller. 

Author of “ Songs of the Sierras.” 


HIS “ poet of the Rockies ’’ has had an eventful career, one that 
has not been free from romance on the one hand, or hard 
reality on the other. He is a “ diamond in the rough.” His 
real genius has never been fully recognized, and this appears 
to be due to his lack of the highest culture and refinement. 
He is a man of the woods and mountains. 

Mr. Miller’s early life was spent mostly on our western frontiers, 
and the scenes of many of his writings are laid in the West. He was 
born in Cincinnati, Ohio, November io, 1842. His Christian name is 
Cincinnatus Heine, but this appears to have been substituted by him for 
“Joaquin.” His family having removed to the far West, he was a resi¬ 
dent of Oregon in 1852. He began a roving life four years later, and 
served for a time with the filibuster, Walker, in Honduras. 

He began the practice of law in Oregon in i860. The Civil War 
was in progress in 1863, and a newspaper that he edited was suppressed 
for disloyalty. He was afterward made county judge for Grant county, 
showing that he had gained the esteem and confidence of the com¬ 
munity. 

During all these years he devoted some part of his time to author¬ 
ship, writing poems and prose romances. His vivid imagination was led 
captive by the romantic scenery of the far West and the tales of heroic 
adventure current on the frontiers. In 1870 he visited Burope. His 
first volume of verse, “ Songs of the Sierras,” was published in England 
in 1871. 

This gave him a measure of fame, and his eccentricities and western 
style of dress appeared to increase the interest his genius had awakened. 
He afterward settled as a journalist in Washington, and in 1887 i n Cali, 
fornia. In 1890 he revisited England, yet without attracting the attention 
that attended his first visit. “ Songs of the Sunlands ” was issued in 
England in 1873, and this volume was followed by “ The Ship in the 
Desert ” and “ The First Families of the Sierras.” Later works, chiefly 

259 




260 


JOAQUIN MILLER. 


prose, are “ The Dauites,” a successful drama, “ My Life Among the 
Modocs,” “The Shadows of Shasta,” “The One Fair Woman,” “The 
Baroness of New York,” “ Memorie and Rime,” etc. 

Mr. Miller’s poems are characterized by rich and glowing pictures of 
western scenery. He has a profound sense of the sublime and beautiful 
in nature, which does much to atone for certain faults of style and 
evidences of the want of culture which are apparent to the critical eye. 


KIT CARSON’S RIDE. 

Carson was a famous trapper and mountain-guide, born in Kentucky and passed a large 
portion of his time in the Rocky Mountains and adjacent territories. He rendered important 
services to Fremont in his explorations. 


R UN ? Now you bet you, I rather guess so. 
But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, 
Pache, boy, whoa. 

No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his eyes. 
But he is badger blind, and it happened this 
wise: 

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain 
levels, 

Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. 
“ Forty full miles if a foot to ride, 

Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
Of red Comanches are hot on the track 
When once they strike it. Let the sun go 
down 

Soon, very soon,” muttered bearded old Revels 
As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back 
Holding fast to his lasso ; then he jerked at his 
steed, 

And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly 
around. 

And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to 
the ground— 

Then again to his feet and to me, to my 
bride, 

While his eyes were like fire, his face like a 
shroud, 

His form like a king, and his beard like a 
cloud, 

And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown 
from a reed— 

“Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, 
And speed, if ever for life you would speed ; 


And ride for your lives, for your lives you 
must ride, 

For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, 

And feet of wild horses, hard flying before, 

I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore : 

While the buffalo come like the surge of the 
sea, 

Driven far by the flames, driving fast on us 
three 

As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his 
ire.” 

We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, 

Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched 
them over again, 

And again drew the girth, cast aside the 
macheer, 

Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its 
fold, 

Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with 
gold, 

And gold-mounted Colts, true companions f >r 
years, 

Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a 
breath, 

And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to 
the horse. 

Not a wail, not a word from a lip was let fell, 

Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or Jow 
call 

Of love-note or courage, but on o’er the plain 

So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, 

With the heel to the flank and the hand to 
the rein, 





JOAQUIN 

Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose 
and nose, 

Reaching long, breathing loud, as a creviced 
wind blows; 

Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not 
a prayer, 

There was work to be done, there was death 
in the air, 

And the chance was one to a thousand for all. 

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady 
mustang 

Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the 
hollow earth rang 

And the foam from the flank and the croup 
and the neck 

Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven 
deck. 

Twenty miles! thirty miles!—a dim distant 
speck— 

Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in 
sight. 

And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. 

I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, 
But Revels was goue; I glanced by my 
shoulder 

And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head 
drooping 

Hard on his breast, and his naked breast 
stooping 

Low down to the mane as so swifter and 
bolder 

Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. 

To right and to left the black buffalo came, 

In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair, 
With their beards to the dust and black tails 
in the air. 

As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame 
Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reach¬ 
ing higher, 

And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, 
The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane 
full 

Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire 
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud 
And unearthly, and up through its lowering 
cloud, 

Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden 
fire, 


MILLER. 261 

While his keen crooked horns through the 
storm of his mane 

Like black lances lifted and lifted again; 

And I looked but this once, for the fire licked 
through, 

And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and 
two. 

I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and 
shoulder 

Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my 
thighs; 

And up through the black blowing veil of her 
hair 

Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes 
With a longing and love, yet look of despair, 
And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold 
her, 

And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. 
Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell 
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s 
swell 

Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as 
dead. 

Then she saw that my own steed still lorded 
his head 

With a look of delight, for this Pache, you see, 
Was her father’s, and once at the South 
Santafee 

Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything 
down 

In a race where the world came to run for the 
crown ; 

And so when I won the true heart of my 
bride— 

My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child, 
And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe— 
She brought me this steed to the border the 
night 

She met Revels and me in her perilous flight, 
From the lodge of the chief to the north 
Brazos side; 

And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled 
As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 
The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue 
I should surely escape without other ado 
Than to ride, without blood, to the north 
Brazos side, 

And await her—and wait till the next hollow 


moon 




JOAQUIN MILLER. 


262 

Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and ) 
soon 

And swift she would join me and all would be 
well 

Without bloodshed or word. And now as she 
fell 

From the front, and went down in the ocean 
of fire, 

The last that I saw was a look of delight 

That I should escape—a love—a desire— 

Yet never a word, not a look of appeal— 

Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or 
stay heel 

One instant for her in my terrible flight. 

Then the rushing of fire rose around me and 
under, 

And the howling of beasts like the sound of 
thunder— 


Beasts burning and blind and forced onward 
and over, 

As the passionate flame reached around them 
and wove her 

Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they 
died— 

Till they died with a wild and a desolate 
moan, 

As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown 
stone, 

And into the Brazos I rode all alone— 

All alone, save only a horse long-limbed. 

And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. 

Then, just as the terrible sea came in 

And tumbled its thousands hot into the 
tide, 

Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream 
brimmed 

In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 


THE FORTUNATE ISLES. 


Y OU sail and you seek for the Fortunate 
Isles, 

The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird’s 
song? 

Then steer straight on through the watery 
miles, 

Straight on, straight on, and you can’t go 
wrong. 

Nay, not to the left, nay, not the right, 

But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, 
The Fortunate Isles where the yellow birds 
sing, 

And life lies girt with a golden ring. 

These Fortunate Isles they are not so far, 
They lie within reach of the lowli< st door; 
You can see them gleam by the twilight star; 
You can hear them sing by the moon’s white 
shore. 


Nay, never look baok ! Those leveled grave¬ 
stones, 

They were landing-steps; they were steps unto 
thrones 

Of glory for souls that have sailed before, 

And have set white feet on the fortunate 
shore. 

And what are the names of the Fortunate 
Isles ? 

Why, duty and love and a large content. 
Lo! these are the Isles of the watery miles 
That God let down from the firmament; 

Lo! duty and love, and a true man’s trust; 
Your forehead to God, and your feet in the 
dust; 

Lo! duty and love, and sweet babe’s smiles, 
And these, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles. 





Frances E. Willard. 

Eloquent Advocate of Reform. 


every walk of life where it is possible for woman to display 
her talents, her success has been conspicuous. Our country 
has every reason to be proud of those members of the gentler 
sex who have commanded attention in authorship, sometimes 
in business, especially in works of reform, and whose influence 
has always been upon the side of good morals, higher educa¬ 
tion, and the development of the noblest womanhood. 

One of our most distinguished American women is the subject of 
this sketch. No one was more widely known or universally respected. 
She was possessed of talents of an unusual order, a warm and earnest 
spirit, untiring energy, the ability to influence others, and seemed to be 
lacking in none of those qualities essential to successful achievement. 

Miss Willard was known throughout the country for her devotion to 
the cause of reform, especially that branch of it embraced in Temperance 
work. She attended meetings and conventions, and lectured in every 
part of the land, and was always received with the attention due to her 
position and character and the worthy objects she sought to promote. 
She was eloquent in the best sense of the term, very fluent in speech, 
possessed of unusual tact, and was heard by multitudes who were in the 
habit of affirming that they “ did not care to hear a woman speak in 
public.” 

It may be truthfully said that her career exhibits all those elements 
which go to make one independent, aggressive, and progressive likewise. 
Throughout her life she never thrust herself into notice, but simply 
embraced the opportunities open to her, and entered the field of usefulness 
when she heard the call for service. She was born in Churchville, N. Y., 
September, 28, 1839, and was educated at Milwaukee and the North¬ 
western Female College at Evansville, Ill., from which she graduated in 
1859. She became Professor of Natural Science there in 1862, and was 
principal of Genesee Wesleyan Seminary in 186 6-6y. 

Considering that no person’s education is complete without those 

263 






264 


FRANCES E. WILLARD. 


advantages furnished by travel and contact '.vith the world, she spent two 
years abroad, and then returned to become Professor of ^Esthetics in 
Northwestern University and Dean of the Woman’s College. This posi¬ 
tion she filled from 1871 to 1874, and there developed her system of self- 
government, which has attracted wide attention and has been adopted by 
other educators. She became convinced at this time that there was a 
work for her to do in connection with the cause of Temperance. 

In consequence of this decision she gave up all other engagements 
in 1874 to identify herself with the Woman’s Christian Temperance 
Union. She was immediately made corresponding secretary, discharging 
the duties of this office until 1879, when she was elevated from the posi¬ 
tion of secretary to that of president. 

In 1876 she assisted Dwight E. Moody in his evangelistic work and 
rendered efficient service. During these years she traveled through the 
country, addressing legislatures and people’s meetings in behalf of tem¬ 
perance and prohibition. She organized the Home Protection Movement 
and sent an appeal from nearly two hundred thousand people to the Leg¬ 
islature of Illinois, asking for the Temperance ballot for women. She 
was always of the opinion that the great reforms needed in America 
would never be brought about until women were permitted to vote, having 
a voice not merely in domestic affairs, but in public measures for the web 
fare of the community. Some of her hardest work was done in the 
advocacy of this project. 

On the death of her brother, Oliver A. Willard, in 1879, she suc¬ 
ceeded him as chief editor of the “ Chicago Evening Post,” but resigned 
soon afterward to devote all her time to the work which was dear to her 
heart, and in which she had exerted a wide and commanding influence. 
In 1886 she accepted the leadership of the White Cross movement in the 
societies founded by herself, and obtained enactments in many states for 
the protection of women. 

In 1888 she was made president of the American branch of the Inter¬ 
national Council of Women and of the World’s Christian Union. In 
1892 she visited England, and received an enthusiastic welcome from the 
friends of reform in that country. She was at the head of the Women’s 
Committee of Temperance Meetings at the World’s Fair in 1893. She 
was the editor of the “Union Signal,” a journal of wide circulation, and 
issued nine volumes, containing addresses and other matter connected 
with those reforms in which she was so conspicuous a figure. 


FRANCES E. WIREARD. 


265 


Under her inspiration the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union 
built the great “Tempeianee Temple” in Chicago and organized a far- 
reaching publishing business, one of the many wonders of the “ Metrop¬ 
olis of the West.” M’ss Willard died in New York, February 17, 1898, 
greatly lamented. 


PLEA FOR HOME PROTECTION. 

DELIVERED AT A CONVENTION IN LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY. 


ROTECTION must be administered 
through a mighty executive force and 
we call that force a party. Happily 
for us, what was our earnest expectation last 
year, is our realization to-day. The Prohi¬ 
bition Home Protection Party stands forth 
as woman’s answered prayer. In the great 
convention of last August at Chicago, where 
three hundred and forty-one delegates rep¬ 
resented twenty-two states, where North and 
South clasped hands in a union never to be 
broken, we felt that the brave men who there 
combined their energy and faith were indeed 
come unto the kingdom, for such a time as 
this. 

“ The right is always expedient,” and the 
note of warning which this non-partisan con¬ 
vention may sound in the ears of partisans 
will serve the cause of constitutional amend¬ 
ment far better than the timid policy of silence. 
It will help, not hinder, our onward march ; 
for we must each year fall backward if we do 
not advance. God’s law of growth does not 


exempt the Woman’s Christian Temperance 
Union. 

Therefore I call to you once more, sisters 
beloved, “ Let us go forward! ” As we now 
proceed with the duties in whose sacred name 
we are met, let it be said of us as of a gifted 
Southern statesman, whose biography I have 
read in the “ Courier-Journal,” since coming 
here: “ He never questions the motives of 
men. He always argues the merits of the 
case.” As the great general said to the boat¬ 
man, so the temperance cause is saying hereto 
us, “ Remember you carry Caesar and his for¬ 
tunes.” God grant that we may be so wise 
and gentle that the cause we love shall not 
be wounded in the house of its friends. 

“ We have no time to waste, 

In critic’s sneer or cynic’s bark, 
Quarrel or reprimand; 

’Twill soon be dark ; 

Then choose thine aim 

And may God speed the mark.” 


THE NEW WOMAN. 


L ET us be grateful that our horizon is 
widening. We women have learned to 
reason from effect to cause. It is con¬ 
sidered a fine sign of a thinker to be able to 
reason from cause to effect. But we, in four¬ 
teen year’s march, have learned to go from 
the drunkard in the gutter, who was the ob¬ 
ject lesson we first saw, back to the children, 
as you will hear to-night; back to the idea of 
preventive, educational, evangelistic, social, 
and legal work for temperance; back to the 
basis of the saloon itself. 


We have found that the liquor traffic is 
joined hand in hand with the very source of 
the National Government. And we have come 
to the place where we want prohibition, first, 
last, and all the time. While the brewer talks 
about his “ vested interests,” I lend my voice 
to the motherhood of the nation that has gone 
down into the valley of unutterable pain and 
in the shadow of death, with the dews of 
eternity upon the mother’s brow, given birth 
and being to the sons who are the “ vested 
interests ” of America’s homes. 






266 


FRANCES E. WILLARD. 


We offset the demand of the brewer and 
distiller, that you shall protect their ill-gotten 
gains, with the thought of these most sacred 
treasures, dear to the hearts that you, our 
brothers, honor—dear to the hearts that you 
love best. I bring to you this thought, to¬ 
night, that you shall vote to represent us, and 
hasten the time when we can represent our¬ 
selves. 

I believe that we are going out into this 
work, being schooled and inspired for greater 
things than we have dreamed, and that the 
army of women will prove the grandest sister¬ 
hood the world has ever known. As I have 
seen the love and kindness and goodwill of 
women who differ so widely from us politically 
and religiously, and yet have found away 
down in the depths of their hearts the utmost 
love and affection, I have said, what kind of 
a world will this be when all women are 
as fond of each other as we strong-minded 
women are ? 

Home is the citadel of everything that is 
good and pure on earth ; nothing must enter 


there to defile, neither anything which loveth 
or rnaketh a lie. And it shall be found that 
all society needed to make it altogether home¬ 
like was the home-folks; that all government 
needed to make it altogether pure from the 
fumes of tobacco and the debasing effects of 
strong drink, was the home folks; that where- 
ever you put a woman who has the atmos¬ 
phere of home about her, she brings in the 
good time of pleasant and friendly relation¬ 
ship, and points with the finger of hope and 
the eye of faith always to something better— 
always it is better farther on. 

As I look around and see the heavy cloud 
of apathy under which so many still are stifled, 
who take no interest in these things, I just 
think they do not half mean the hard words 
that they sometimes speak to us, or they 
wouldn’t if they knew; and, after awhile, 
they will have the same views I have, spell 
them with a capital V, and all be har¬ 
monious, like Barnum’s happy family, a 
splendid menagerie of the whole human race 
—clear-eyed, kind and victorious 1 


WOMAN AND 

ONGERago than I shall tell, my father 
returned one night to the far-off Wis¬ 
consin home where I was reared, and 
sitting by my mother’s chair, with a child’s 
attentive ear I listened to their words. He 
told us of the news that day had brought 
about Neal Dow, and the great fight for Pro¬ 
hibition down in Maine, and then he said : 
“I wonder if poor, rum-cursed Wisconsin 
will ever get a law like that ? ” And mother 
rocked awhile in silence in the dear old chair 
I love, and then she gently said: “ Yes, 

Josiah, there’ll be such a law all over the land 
some day, when women vote.” 

My father had never heard her say as much 
before. He was a great conservative; so he 
looked tremendously astonished, and replied, 
in his keen, sarcastic voice: “ And pray, 

how will you arrange it so that women shall 
vote?” Mother’s chair went to and fro a 
little faster for a minute, and then, looking 
not into his face, but into the flickering flames 


THE BALLOT. 

of the grate, she slowly answered. “ Well, I 
say to you, as the Apostle Paul said to his 
jailer: ‘You have put us into prison, we 
being Romans, and you must come and take 
us out.’ ” 

My brother grew to manhood, and soon 
after he was twenty-one years old he went 
with father to vote. Standing by the window, 
a girl of sixteen years, not at all strong- 
minded, I looked out as they drove away, my 
father and brother, and as I looked I felt a 
strange ache in my heart, and tears sprang to 
my eyes. Turning to my sister Mary, who 
stood beside me, I saw that the dear little 
innocent seemed wonderfully sober, too. I 
said: “ Don’t you wish that we could go 

with them when we are old enough ? Don’t 
we love our country just as well as they do? ” 
and her little frightened voice piped out: 
“Yes, of course we ought. Don’t I know 
that; but you musn’ttell a soul—not mother, 
even ; we should be called strong-minded.” 






Eugene Field. 

Child-Lover and Poet. 


HEN Dr. Arnold of Rugby was asked wliy he always took off 
his hat to his scholars, he replied, “ Some of these boys will 
be members of Parliament, perhaps prime-ministers, or dis¬ 
tinguished authors and scientists. Why should I not bow 
to these future celebrities?” Eugene Field had the same 
respect and love for children, and all who knew him paid him 
back with a love that almost amounted to idolatry. 

He was born in St. Louis, Missouri, September 2, 1850. His parents 
were Vermont people ; his father a lawyer, and his mother a gentlewoman 
of beautiful character. At six years of age, Eugene Field was left mother¬ 
less. He cherished with a tender heart the precious memory of his 
mother. “ My little mother, who left me when I was six years old,” he 
would say. “ Oh, if my mother, my dear mother, had but lived to feel a 
little, just a little proud of her boy.” 

At the death of the mother, Eugene, together with his brothers, was 
sent “ back east ” to Massachusetts and put under the care of Miss 
French, a maiden cousin of the father, and a most noble character she 
was. Here the poet remained until he was nineteen years of age. Of 
this period he says, i ‘ These were the sweetest and finest days of my life. 
I love old Amherst.” 

Eugene Field, as a child, was most precocious. When nine years of 
age he was sent to Fayetteville, Vermont, to the old homestead where his 
grandmother lived. This visit extended over a period of seven months. 
Of this visit, Field said, “ We, my brothers and I, stayed there seven 
months, and the old lady got all the grandson she wanted. She didn’t 
want the visit repeated.” This grandmother was a New England Con- 
gregationalist of the strictest sort. She used to encourage Eugene to 
write little sermons, paying him ten cents for each sermon he wrote. 
The first one of these sermons was kept by Field until the end of his life. 
It was composed of several sheets of note paper, beautifully bound in cloth. 

Mr. Field was not a college man. At sixteen years of age, he was 

267 




268 


EUGENE FIELD. 


fitted for Williams College, but was compelled to give up tlie idea, 
because of failing health. At eighteen he mourned the loss of a loving 
father, and one year later returned to the west to reside with his guardian, 
Prof. Burgess of Knox College, Galesburg, Ill. Shortly after this Field 
was enrolled as a student in the State University at Columbus, Mo. 
Here he remained until he was twenty-one years of age. On reaching 
his majority, he came into possession of $60,000, and with a friend im¬ 
mediately started for Europe. The result was, that he returned home 
bankrupt; and at once entered into the realms of journalism. From journ¬ 
alism he developed into the beautiful writer, whom all grew to love and 
reverence. 

His first poem, “ Christmas Treasures,” was written simply to fill 
an unoccupied space in the “ St. Louis Journal.” It is a beautiful little 
poem, filled with tender thought: 

A little sock, a little toy, 

A little lock of golden hair, 

The Christmas music on the air, 

A watching for my baby boy. 

But if again that angel train 
And golden head come back to me, 

To bear me to Eternity, 

My watching will not be in vain. 

In 1883, Mr. Field removed to Chicago, where he became connected 
with the “ Daily News.” He had such a love for children that there were 
many homes in Chicago where he was welcomed as a jolly older brother. 
No matter what business he had on hand, the children’s claims always 
came first. The story is told that on his wedding day the bride and 
guests were waiting, and some of his friends went in search of him. 
They found him down on his knees, in the mud, trying to settle a dis¬ 
pute over marbles with some little street boys. 

The sad note in some of his sweetest songs was caused by the sorrow 
attending the death of his own loved son. The tender little poem, “ Our 
Little Boy Blue,” is dedicated to this angel son. The following extract 
from one of his children songs is typical of the man : 

Come in little people from cot and from hall, 

This heart it hath welcome and room for you all: 

I will sing you its song and warm you with love, 

As your dear little arms with my arm intertwine ; 

It will rock you away to the dreamland above. 

Oh ! a jolly old heart is this heart of mine— 

And jollier still it is bound to become 

When you blow that big trumpet and beat that big drum. 


EUGENE FIELD. 


269 


The following are Mr. Field’s books, some of which are verse: 
“ Denver Tribune Primer,” published in 1882 ; “ Culture’s Garden,” 
1887; “A Little Book of Western Verse,” 1889; “A Little Book of 
Profitable Tales,” 1890; “With Trumpet and Drum,” 1892; “Echoes 
from a Sabine Farm,” 1895. Mr. Field died in 1895, at the early age of 
forty-five years. 


QUOTATIONS FROM MR. FIELD’S POEMS. 


T HAT night, while -lengthening shadows 
crept, 

I saw the white-winged angels come 
With singing to our lowly home. 

And kiss my darling as he slept. 

—Christmas Treasures. 

U PON a mountain height, far from the sea, 
I found a shell; 

And to my listening ear the lovely thing 
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, 

Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell. 

—The Wanderer. 

? r I ''IS New Year’s eve, and again I watch 
In the old familiar place, 

And I’m thinking again of that old 
time when 

I looked on a dear one’s face. 

Never a little one hugs my knee, 

And I hear no gleeful shout—- 


I am sitting alone by the old hearth-stone 
Watching the old year out, 

But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom, 
That solemnly calls to me ; 

“ Tiek-tock, tick-tock! ”—for so the clock 
Tells of a life to be; 

“ Tick-tock, tick-tock ! ” ’tis so the clock 
Tells of eternity. 

— Watching the New Year In. 

A YE, faithful to Little Boy Blue, they 
stand, 

Each in the same old place, 

Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little, lace. 

And they wonder as waiting these long years 
through 

In the dust of that little chair, 

What has become of our Little Boy Blue 
Since he kissed them and put them there? 

— Oar Little Boy Blue. 


THE DUEL. 


T HE gingham dog and the calico cat 
Side by side on the table sat; 

’Twas half-past twelve, and what do you 
think. 

Neither of them had slept a wink! 

And the old Dutch clock and the Chinese 
plate 

Seemed to know, as sure as fate, 

There was going to be an awful spat. 

(I wasn’t there—I simply state 

What was told to me by the Chinese plate.) 


The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow! ” 
And the calico cat replied “ me-ow ? ” 

And the air was streaked for an hour or so 
With fragments of gingham and calico. 

While the old Dutch clock in the chimney- 
place 

Up with its hands before its face, 

For it always dreaded a family row ! 

(Now mind, I’m simply telling you 
What the old Dutch clock declares is 
true.) 








270 


EUGENE FIELD. 


The Chinese plate looked very blue 
And wailed : “ Oh, dear what shall we do?” 
But the gingham dog and the calico cat 
Wallowed this way and tumbled that, 

And utilized every tooth and claw 
In the awfulest way you ever saw— 

And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! 

(Don’t think that I exaggerate 
I got my news from the Chinese plate.) 


Next morning where the two had sat 
They found no trace of dog or cat; 

And some folks think unto this day 
That burglars stole that pair away; 

But the truth about that cat and pup 
Is that they ate each other up— 

Now, what do you think of that? 

(The old Dutch clock, it told me so, 
And that is how I came to know.) 


JAPANESE LULLABY. 


S LEEP, little pigeon, and fold your wings— 
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes, 
Sleep to the singing of the mother bird 
swinging— 

Swinging the nest where her little one 
lies. 

Away out yonder I see a star— 

Silvery star with a tinkling song ; 

To the soft dew falling I hear it calling— 
Calling and tinkling the night along. 

In through the window a moonbeam comes— 
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings ; 


All silently creeping, it asks: “ Is he sleeping— 
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings ?” 

Up from the sea there floats the sob 

Of the waves that are breaking upon the 
shore, 

As though they were groaning in anguish 
and moaning— 

Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more. 

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings— 
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; 

Am I not singing—see, I am swinging— 
Swing the nest where my darling lies. 


BOOH! 

READ AT THE WORLD’S FAIR LITERARY CONGRESS IN CHICAGO, CHILDREN’S DAY. 


O N afternoons, when baby boy has had a 
splendid nap 

And sits, like any monarch on his 
throne in nurse’s lap, 

In this peculiar wise I hold my ’kerchief to 
my face, 

And cautiously and quietly I move about the 
place: 

Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face 
to view, 

And you should hear him laugh and crow 
when I saw “ Booh ! ” 

Sometimes that rascal tries to make believe 
that he is scared, 

And, really, when I first begau, he stared and 
stared and stared; 

And then his under lip came out and further 
out it came, 


Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a 
“ cruel shame.” 

But now what does the same wee, toddling, 
lisping baby do 

But laugh and kick his little heels when I say 
“ Booh! ” 

He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous 
glee, and then 

In shrill, despotic treble bids me “do it all 
aden! ” 

And I—of course I do it for, as his progeni¬ 
tor, 

It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I 
am for! 

And it is, oh, such fun! and I am sure that I 
shall rue 

The time when we are both too old to play 
the game of “ Booh!” 







Joseph Rodman Drake. 

Author of “ The Culprit Fay.” 


HE author of the “ Culprit Fay ” was born in the city of New 
York, on the seventh day of August, 1795. His father died 
while he was very young, and left his family in possession of 
but little property. Young Drake, therefore, experienced some 
difficulties in acquiring his education. He entered Columbia 
College, however, at an early period, and passed through that 
institution with a reputation for scholarship, taste, and admirable social 
qualities, all of which distinguished him afterward. 

Soon after completing his professional studies he was married. His 
health, about the same time, began to decline, and in the winter of 1819 
he visited New Orleans, to which city his mother had previously removed. 
He had anticipated some benefit from the sea-voyage, and the mild climate 
of Louisiana, but was disappointed, and in the spring of 1820 he returned 
to New York. His disease—consumption—was now too deeply seated 
for hope of restoration to be cherished, and he gradually withdrew him¬ 
self from society, and sought quiet among his books, and in the com¬ 
panionship of his wife and most intimate friends. He lingered through 
the summer and died near the close of September, in the twenty-sixth 
year of his age. 

He began to write verse when very young, and was a contributor to 
several gazettes before he was sixteen years old. He permitted none but 
his most intimate friends to know his signatures, and sometimes kept the 
secrets of his authorship entirely to himself. The longest poem by 
Drake is “ The Culprit Fay,” a story exhibiting the most delicate fancy, 
and much artistic skill, which was not printed until several years after 
his death. It was composed hastily among the highlands of the Hudson, 
in the summer of 1819. 

Drake had the true poet’s love of nature, and nearly all his pro¬ 
ductions lead us delightfully through field and wood. His vision is 
keen, his fancy finds ever varying opportunities to display its delicate 
conceptions, and his verse is a joy and constant surprise. 



271 




272 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

THE AMERICAN FLAG. 


HEN Freedom, from her mountain j 
height, 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of nignt, 

And set the stars of glory there! 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light, 

Then, from his mansion in the sun, 

She called her eagle-bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear’st aloft thy regal form, 

To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 

And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,— 
Child of the Sun! to thee ’t is given 
To guard the banner of the free, 

To hover in the sulphur smoke, 

To ward away the battle-stroke, 

And bid its blendings shine afar, 

Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 

The sign of hope and triumph high ! 

When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 

And the long line comes gleaming on, 

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 

Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 


Each soldier’s eye shall brightly turn 
To where the sky-born glories burn, 

And, as his springing steps advance, 

Catch war aud vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o’er the brave: 

When death, careering on the gale, 

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 

And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside’s reeling rack, 

Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 

And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o’er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart’s hope and home, 

By angel hands to valor given, 

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before 
us. 

With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er 
us! 



THE STURGEON. 


O NWARD still he held his way, 

Till he came where the column 
moonshine lay, 

Aud saw beneath the surface dim 
The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim : 
Around him were the goblin train— 

But he sculled with all his might and main, 
And followed wherever the sturgeon led, 
Till he saw him upward point his head ; 
Then he dropped his paddle-blade, 


And held his colen-goblet up 
To catch the drop in its crimson cup. 

With sweeping tail aud quivering fin, 
Through the wave the sturgeon flew, 
And, like the heaven-shot javelin, 

He sprang above the waters blue, 
Instant as the star-fall light, 

He plunged him in the deep again, 


FROM “THE CULPRIT FAY.” 

of 







JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 


But left an arch of silver bright, 

The rainbow of the moony main. 

It was a strange and lovely sight 
To see the puny goblin there; 

He seemed an angel form of light, 

With azure wing and sunny hair, 
Throned on a cloud of purple fair, 
Circled with blue and edged with white, 
And sitting at the fall of even 
Beneath the bow of summer heaven. 

A moment, and its lustre fell ; 

But ere it met the billow blue, 

He caught within his crimson bell 
A droplet of its sparkling dew— 

Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done, 

Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won— 
Cheerfully ply thy dripping oar, 

And haste away to the elfin shore. 


278 

He turns, and, lo, on either side 
The ripples on his path divide ; 

And the track o’er which his boat must 
pass, 

Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. 
Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs 
lave, 

With snowy arms half-swelling out, 
While on the glossed and gleamy wave 
Their sea-green ringlets loosely float; 
They swim around with smile and song; 

They press the bark with pearly hand, 
And gently urge her course along, 

Toward the beach of speckled sand ; 

And, as he lightly leaped to land, 

They bade adieu with nod and bow, 

Then gayly kissed each little hand, 

And dropped in the crystal deep below. 


THE BRONX. 


I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, 
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle 
river, 

Whose waters seemed unwilling to glide, 

Like parting friends, who linger while they 
sever; 

Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, 
Backward they wind their way in many a 
wistful eddy. 

Gray o’er my head the yellow-vested willow 
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, 
Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, 
Or the fine frostwork which young winter 
freezes; 

When first his power in infant pastime trying, 
Congeals sad autumn’s tears on the dead 
branches lying. 

The humbird shook his sun-touched wings 
around, 

The bluefinch carolled in the still retreat; 
The antic squirrel capered on the ground 
Where lichens made a carpet for his feet; 
Through the transparent waves, the ruddy 
minkle 

Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin’s 
tiny twinkle. 

18 


The breeze fresh springing from the lips of 
morn, 

Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose ’em, 

The winding of the merry locust’s horn, 

The glad spring gushing from the rock’s 
bare bosom: 

Sweet sighs, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds 
excelling, 

O! ’twas a ravishing spot, formed for a poet’s 
dwelling. 

And did I leave thy loveliness to stand 

Again in the dull world of earthly blind¬ 
ness? 

Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, 
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kind¬ 
ness? 

Left I for this thy shades where none intrude, 

To prison wandering thought and mar sweet 
solitude ? 

Yet I will look upon thy face again, 

My own romantic Bronx, and it will be 

A face more pleasant than the face of men. 
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see 

A well-remembered form in each old tree, 

And hear a voice long loved in thy wild 
minstrelsy. 





Daniel Webster. 

Orator and “Defender of the Constitution.” 


EBSTER was a poor boy, the son of a New Hampshire farmer 
who kept a tavern, and began to study and make himself 
useful as far back as he could remember. The first twenty- 
five cents he ever earned was given to a peddler for a hand¬ 
kerchief, on which the Constitution of the United States was 
printed. He read this over and over until he could repeat 
every word from memory, and so his life-long study of the Constitution 
was begun. By the light of the log-fire at night he committed to memory 
hymns and verses from the Bible and read Addison’s “ Spectator.” He 
would do almost anything for the loan of a book, which he would carry 
about in his pocket and study during odd minutes when he was on the 
farm, going on errands, or waiting for the logs to run through the mill. 

One day when Daniel and his father were in the hay field a man 
rode up and talked with his father for a few minutes. After he was 
gone, Squire Webster said, “ Dan, by a few votes, that man beat me in 
getting into Congress, because he had a better education. You shall 
have an education, and then you must work your way to Congress.” 

Daniel gave no great promise in Dartmouth College; he was a good 
scholar, had a wonderful memory, and never shrank from the work or 
trouble of getting thoroughly informed on a subject. It was said that 
during all his school life he was never late, never out of place, and never 
had a poor recitation. But for all this, he was not distinguished, and did 
not make any show at graduation, though he left college with a perfectly 
clean record and high standing. Not one mark of disapproval had ever 
stood against his name. 

Squire Webster, then a judge, obtained for Daniel a position as clerk 
in his court, with a salary of fifteen hundred dollars a year. But the 
young man refused it, saying, “ I propose to be an actor, and not a 
register of other men’s acts.” The old gentleman was disappointed. 
He said there were already more lawyers than the country needed, and 
Daniel replied, “ There is room enough at the top.” So, against the 

274 




DANIEL WEBSTER. 


275 


advice of his friends, and without help or encouragement, he set to work 
to study law. After he could learn no more from the country lawyers, 
he went to Boston. Step by step, with patience, judgment, and hard 
work, he made his way to the Boston bar and finally to Congress, where 
he went far beyond his father’s fondest hope, and took rank at once 
among the greatest men of the nation. 

Whether representing the Granite State in Congress, following his 
profession in Boston, or during the long periods when he stood for Massa¬ 
chusetts, first as a Congressman and later as a Senator, or when he served 
under the Harrison-Tyler and the Fillmore administrations as Secretary 
of State—altogether a period of almost forty years—Mr. Webster devoted 
himself with zeal and wisdom to all the greatest public matters of his 
time, both in law and in politics. His influence in many important 
steps in our country’s progress is felt to this day, and will always be felt 
as long as the nation exists. 

He had a magnificent power of setting forth truth; his eloquent, 
forcible words; his profound knowledge; his deep, musical voice, and 
his commanding figure, carried the opinions of judges, juries, and 
spectators into the current of his own arguments. 

Much of Mr. Webster’s fame also rests upon the public orations 
which he made in honor of great national events. The first of these 
was delivered at Plymouth in 1820, on the anniversary of the landing of 
the Pilgrims. Five years later he gave another, when the corner-stone 
for the Bunker Hill Monument was laid; which was followed by still 
another when the monument was finished in 1843. But the most brilliant 
of all, perhaps, was the eulogy on the two great patriots, Thomas Jeffer¬ 
son and John Adams, who died the same day, just fifty years after the 
Declaration of Independence, which one wrote for Congress and the other 
read before it. 

On his record as Senator everything else is cast in the shadow by 
his famous reply to Robert Y. Hayne, of South Carolina, in what is 
always known as the Great Debate of the Senate. Never, before or 
after, did the genius of Daniel Webster rise to such wonderful power 
as in those two days, January 26 and 27, 1830,'when, denying the right 
of any State to “ nullify ” the Federal laws, he defended the Union and 
the Constitution in the most remarkable soeech ever delivered in either 
house of the United States Congress. 

He had no thought of gaining literary fame by it, and yet the 


276 


DANIEL WEBSTER. 


speech, even to those who take little interest in subjects like the tariff, 
nullification, and the public lands, will ever be interesting, from its pro¬ 
found knowledge, its clear arrangement, the broad stamp of nationality it 
bears, and the wit, sarcasm, and splendid, impassioned eloquence, which 
add brilliance to its wisdom and clearness to “ the close and rapid march 
of its argument.” 

“ Our impression is,” said an able English writer, “ that excepting 
for Mirabeau, Chatham, Fox, and Brougham, no speaker entirely the 
match of Daniel Webster has trod the world-stage for full two centuries.” 

Among his own countrymen, too, he has received the highest praise. 
His speeches take the highest rank among the best productions of the 
American intellect. They are thoroughly national in their spirit and 
tone, and are full of principles, arguments, and appeals, which come 
directly home to the hearts and understanding of the great body of the 
people. They are storehouses of thought and knowledge, solid judgment, 
high sentiment, and broad and generous views of national policy. 

When the great statesman was seventy years old, his birthday was 
celebrated in Boston by a grand ovation. In the speech he made thank¬ 
ing his friends for the honor they paid him, he told the secret of his 
success in the words, “ Work has made me what I am. I never ate a bit 
of idle bread in my life.” 

Daniel Webster was born at Salisbury, New Hampshire, January 18, 
1782. He died at Marshfield, Massachusetts, October 24, 1852. 


TO THE SURVIVORS OF THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. 


V ENERABLE men ! you have come down 
to us from a former generation. Heaven 
has bounteously lengthened out your 
lives that you might behold this joyous day. 
You are now where you stood fifty years ago, 
this very hour, with your brothers and your 
neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife 
for your country. Behold how altered ! The 
same heavens are indeed over your heads; 
the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all 
else, how changed! 

You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, 
you see no mixed volumes of smoke and 
flame rising from burning Charlestown. The 
ground strewed with the dead and the dying; 
the impetuous charge ; the steady and sue- 1 


cessful repulse; the loud call to repeated as¬ 
sault ; the summoning of all that is manly to 
repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely 
and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever 
of terror there may be in war and death;— 
all these you have witnessed, but you witness 
them no more. All is peace. The heights of 
yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which 
you then saw filled with wives and children 
and countrymen in distress and terror, and 
looking with unutterable emotions for the 
issue of the combat, have presented you to-day 
with the sight of its whole happy population, 
come out to welcome and greet you with a 
universal jubilee. 

I Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position 




DANIEL WEBSTER. 


277 


appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, 
and seeming fondly to cling around it, are 
not means of annoyance to you, but your 
country’s own means of distinction and de¬ 
fence. All is peace; and God has granted 
you this sight of your country’s happiness, ere 
you slumber in the grave. He has allowed 
you to behold and to partake the reward of 
your patriotic toils; and he has allowed us, 
your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, 
and in the name of the present generation, in 
the name of your country, in the name of 
liberty to thank you ! 

But, alas! you are not all here! Time and J 
the sword have thinned your ranks. Prescott, { 
Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, 
Bridge! our eyes seek for you in vain amid I 


this broken band. You are gathered to your 
fathers, and live only to your country in her 
grateful remembrance and your own bright 
example. But let us not too much grieve 
that you have met the common fate of men. 
You lived at least long enough to know that 
your work had been nobly and successfully 
accomplished. You lived to see your coun¬ 
try’s independence established, and to sheathe 
your swords from war. On the light of Lib¬ 
erty you saw arise the light of Peace, like 

“ another morn, 

Risen on mid-noon— 

and the sky on which you closed your eyes 
was cloudless. 


LIBERTY AND UNION. 

The most remarkable debate in the history of the United States was that which took 
place between Webster and Hayne of South Carolina. The closing part of Mr. Webster’s 
speech is here inserted. No other American orator ever rose to the height of majestic elo¬ 
quence exhibited on this occasion by the imperial defender of the Union. 


I PROFESS, sir, in my career hitherto, to 
have kept steadily in view the prosperity 
and honor of the whole country, and the 
preservation of our Federal Union. It is to 
that Union we owe our safety at home, and 
our consideration and dignity abroad. It is 
to that Union we are chiefly indebted for what¬ 
ever makes us most proud of our country. 
That Union we reached only by the discipline 
of our virtues, in the severe school of adver¬ 
sity. It had its origin in the necessities of 
disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and 
ruined credit. 

Under its benign influences, these great 
interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, 
and sprang forth with newness of life. Every 
year of its duration has teemed with fresh 
proofs of its utility and its blessings; and 
although our territory has stretched out wider 
and wider, and our population spread further 
and further, they have not outrun its protec¬ 
tion, or its benefits. It has been to us all a 
copious fountain of national, social, personal 
happiness 

I have not allowed myself, sir, to look 


beyond the Union to see what might lie hidden 
in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly 
weighed the chances of preserving liberty, 
when the bonds that unite us together shall 
be broken asunder. I have not accustomed 
myself to hang over the precipice of disunion 
to see whether, with my short sight, I can 
fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor 
could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the 
affairs of this goverment whose thoughts 
should be mainly bent on considering, not 
how the Union should be best preserved, but 
how tolerable might be the condition of the 
people when it shall be broken up and des¬ 
troyed. 

While the Union lasts, we have high, excit¬ 
ing, gratifying prospects spread out before us 
and our children. Beyond that I seek not to 
penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my 
day, at least, that curtain may not rise! God 
grant that on my vision never may be opened 
what lies behind! When my eyes shall be 
turned to behold, for the last time, the Sun in 
Heaven, may I not see him shining on the 
broken and dishonored fragments of a once 






278 


DANIEL WEBSTER. 


glorious Uuiou ; ou States severed, discordant, 
belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, 
or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! 
Let their last feeble and lingering glance, 
rather, behold the gorgeous Ensign of the 
Republic, now known and honored through¬ 
out the earth, still full high advanced, its 
arms and trophies, streaming in their original 
lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a 
single star obscured, bearing, for its motto, no 


such miserable interrogatory as - What is all 
this worth ?—nor those other words of delusion 
and folly —Liberty first and Union afterwards, 
—but everywhere, spread all over in charac¬ 
ters of living light, blazing on all its ample 
folds, as they float over the sea and over the 
land, and in every wind under the whole 
heavens, that other sentiment, dear to everX 
true American heart, Liberty and Union, now 
and forever, one and inseparable! 


THE CONSTITUTION THE 

HE political prosperity which this coun¬ 
try has attained, and which it now 
enjoys, has been acquired mainly 
through the instrumentality of the present 
government. While this agent continues, the 
capacity of attaining to still higher degrees 
of prosperity exists also. We have, while 
this lasts, a political life capable of beneficial 
exertion, with power to resist or overcome 
misfortunes, to sustain us against the ordinary 
accidents of human affairs, and to promote, 
by active efforts, every public interest. 

But dismemberment strikes at the very 
being which preserves these faculties. It 
would lay its rude and ruthless hand on this 
great agent itself. It would sweep away, not 
only what we possess, but all power of regain¬ 
ing lost, or acquiring new possessions. It 
would leave the country, not only bereft of 
its prosperity and happiness, but without 
limbs, or organs, or faculties, by which to 
exert itself hereafter in the pursuit of that 
prosperity and happiness. 

Other misfortunes may be borne, or their 
effects overcome, If disastrous war should 
sweep our commerce from the ocean, another 


SAFEGUARD OF LIBERTY. 

generation may renew it; if it exhausts our 
treasury, future industry may replenish it; 
if it desolate and lay waste our fields, still, 
under a new cultivation, they will grow green 
again, and ripen to future harvests. It were 
but a trifle even if the walls of yonder Capi¬ 
tol were to crumble, if its lofty pillars should 
fall, and its gorgeous decorations be all cov¬ 
ered by the dust of the valley. All these 
might be rebuilt. 

But who shall reconstruct the fabric of 
demolished government? Who shall rear 
again the well-proportioned columns of con¬ 
stitutional liberty ? Who shall frame together 
the skilful architecture which unites national 
sovereignty with state rights, individual secu¬ 
rity, and public prosperity? No, if these 
columns fall, they will be raised not again. 
Like the Coliseum and the Parthenon, they 
will be destined to a mournful, a melancholy 
immortality. Bitterer tears, however, will 
flow over them, than were ever shed over the 
monuments of Roman or Grecian art; for 
they will be the remnants of a more glorious 
edifice than Greece or Rome ever saw, the 
edifice of constitutional American liberty. 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS FROM THE MAYFLOWER. 


T HE hours of this day are rapidly flying, 
and this occasion will soon be passed. 
Neither we nor our children can expect 
to behold its return. They are in the distant 
regions of futurity, they exist only in the all- 
creating power of God, who shall stand here 
a hundred years hence, to trace, through us, 


their descent from the Pilgrims, and to sur¬ 
vey, as we have now surveyed, the progress of 
their country, during the lapse of a century. 
We would anticipate their concurrence with 
us in our sentiments of deep regard for our 
common ancestors. 

We would anticipate and partake the 







DANIEL WEBSTER. 


279 


pleasure with which they will then recount 
the steps of New England’s advancement. 
On the morning of that day, although it will 
not disturb us in our repose, the voice of ac¬ 
clamation and gratitude, commencing on the 
Rock of Plymouth, shall be transmitted 
through millions of the sons of the Pilgrims, 
till it lose itself in the murmurs of Ihe Pacific 
seas. 

We would leave for the consideration of 
those who shall then occupy our places, some 
proof that we hold the blessings transmitted 
from our fathers in just estimation; some 
proof of our attachment to the cause of good 
government, and of civil and religious liberty; 
some proof of a sincere and ardent desire to 
promote every thing which may enlarge the 
understandings and improve the hearts of 
men. 

And when, from the long distance of a 
hundred years, they shall look back upon us, 
they shall know, at least, that we possessed 
affections, which, running backward and 
warming with gratitude for what our ances¬ 


tors have done for our happiness, run forward 
also to our posterity, and meet them with 
cordial salutation, ere yet they have arrived 
on the shore of being. 

Advance, then, ye future generations ! We 
would hail you, as you rise in your long suc¬ 
cession, to fill the places which we now fill, 
and to taste the blessings of existence where 
we are passing, and soon shall have passed, 
our own human duration. We bid you wel¬ 
come to this pleasant land of the fathers. 
We bid you welcome to the healthful skies 
and the verdant fields of New England. 

We greet your accession to the great inherit¬ 
ance which we have enjoyed. We welcome 
you to the blessings of good government and 
religious liberty. We welcome you to the 
treasures of science and the delights of learn¬ 
ing. We welcome you to the transcendent 
sweets of domestic life, to the happiness of 
kindred, and parents, and children. We 
welcome you to the immeasurable blessings 
of rational existence, the immortal hope of 
Christianity, aud the light of everlasting truth 


THE MAJESTY OF 

T may be asked, perhaps, what can we do ? 
Are we to go to war ? Are we to inter¬ 
fere in the Greek cause, or any other 
European cause? Are we to endanger our 
pacific relations ? No, certainly not. What, 
then, the question recurs, remains for us t If 
we will not endanger our own peace, if we 
will neither furnish armies nor navies to the 
cause which we think the just one, what is 
there within our power? 

Sir, this reasoning mistakes the age. The 
time has been, indeed, when fleets, and armies, 
and subsidies were the principal reliances even 
in the best cause. But, happily for mankind, 
a great change has taken place in this respect. 
Moral causes come into consideration in pro¬ 
portion as the progress of knowledge is 
advanced ; and the public opinion of the civil¬ 
ized world is rapidly gaining an ascendancy 
over mere brutal force. It is already able to 
oppose the most formidable obstruction to the 
progress of injustice and oppression ; and, as 


PUBLIC OPINION. 

it grows more intelligent and more intense, it 
will be more and more formidable. It may 
be silenced by military power, but it cannot 
be conquered. It is elastic, irrepressible, and 
invulnerable to the weapons of ordinary war¬ 
fare. It is that impassable, inextinguishable 
enemy of mere violence and arbitrary rule 
which, like Milton’s angels, 

“ Vital in every part, 

Cannot, but by annihilating, die.” 

Until this be propitiated or satisfied, it is 
vain for power to talk either of triumphs or 
of repose. No matter what fields are deso¬ 
lated, what fortresses surrendered, what armies 
subdued, or what provinces overrun. In the 
history of the year that has passed by us, and 
in the instance of unhappy Spain, we have 
seen the vanity of all triumphs in a cause 
which violates the general sense of justice of 
the civilized world. 






William Gilmore Simms. 

Author of “Southern Passages and Pictures.” 


HIS prominent author was born in Charleston, South Carolina, 
in the spring of 1807. His mother died during his infancy 
and his father soon emigrated to one of the western territories, 
leaving him to the guardian care of his grandmother. When 
not more than nine or ten years old he began to write verses; 
at fifteen he was a contributor to the poetical department of 
journals printed near his home; and at eighteen he published his first 
volume, entited “ Lyrical and Other Poems,” which was followed by other 
works, all showing more than ordinary ability. 

When twenty-one years old, Mr. Simms was admitted to the bar and 
began to practice his profession in his native district, but feeling a deep 
interest in the political questions which then agitated the country, he 
soon abandoned the courts and purchased a daily Gazette at Charleston, 
which he edited for several years with industry, integrity and ability. 
He was not altogether successful in journalism and resolved to retrieve 
his fortunes by authorship. His principal poetical work, “ Atlantis, a 
Story of the Sea,” was published in New York in 1833. 

Soon after the appearance of “ Atlantis,” Mr. Simms published 
in the “ American Quarterly,” a review of Mrs. Trollope’s “ Domestic 
Manners of the Americans,” which was reprinted, in several editions, in 
this country and in England ; and in 1833 appeared his first romance, 
“ Martin Faber, the Story of a Criminal,” parts of which had been 
printed several years before in a magazine conducted by him in Charles¬ 
ton. In the same year he published “ The Book of My Lady,” and, in 
th® summer of 1834, Guy Rivers, a Tale of Georgia,” which was fol¬ 
lowed by “ The Yemassee,” “ The Partisan,” “ Mellichampe,” “ Pelayo,” 
“ Carl Werner,” “ The Damsel of Darien,” “ The Kinsman,” “ The His¬ 
tory of South Carolina,” “ The Blind Heart,” aud numerous sketches, 
reviews, and miscellanies, in the periodicals. 

Several other works have been generally attributed to him ; though 
the amount of his acknowledged writing seems to be as great as one man 
280 




WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS- 


281 


could have produced after he commenced his career as an author. His 
novels have been very popular, particularly in the southern states, the 
scenery and history of which, several of them are designed to illustrate. 
They exhibit considerable dramatic power, and some of the characters are 
drawn with great skill. 

His “ Southern Passages and Pictures” appeared in New York in 
1839, an d he afterward published “ Florida,” in five cantos, and many 
shorter poems. They are on a great variety of subjects, and in almost 
every measure. Among them are several very spirited ballads, founded 
on Indian traditions and on incidents in the war for independence. His 
style is free and melodious, his fancy fertile and inventive, and his 
imagery generally well chosen, though its range is limited. He is 
strongly attached to his country. The rivers, forests, savannas, and institu¬ 
tions of the South he regards with feelings similar to those with which 
Whittier looks upon the mountains, lakes, and social systems of New 
England. 

Mr. Simms was retiring in his habits, went little into society, and 
kept aloof from all controversies; finding happiness in the bosom of his 
family, among his books, and in correspondence and personal intercourse 
with his literary friends. He was a fine specimen of the true southern 
gentleman, and combined in himself the high qualities attributed to that 
character. 


MOTHER AND CHILD 


T HE wind blew wide the casement, and 
within— 

It was the loveliest picture!—a sweet 
child. 

Lay in its mother’s arms, and drew its life, 

In pauses, from the fountain—the white round 
Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, 
Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm 
Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees 
With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips 
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast 
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the 
flower, 

Wore the same color, rich and warm and 
fresh :— 

And such alone are beautiful. Its eye, 

A full blue gem, most exquisitely set, 


[ Looked archly on its world—the little imp, 
j As if it knew even then that such a wreath 
Were not for all; and with its playful hands 
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, 

And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid 
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys, 
And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the 
tears 

Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek— 
Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring 
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy ; 
And the true heart of that young mother then 
Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously 
The silliest ballad-song that ever yet 
Subdued the nursery’s voices, and brought 
sleep 

To fold her sabbath wings above its couch. 




282 


WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 


THE GRAPE-VINE SWING. 


L ITHE and iong as the serpent train, 

Springing and clinging from tree to 
tree, 

Now darting upward, now down again, 

With a twisting and a twirl that are strange 
Never took serpent a deadlier hold, [to see ; 

Never the cougar a wilder spring, 
Strangling the oak with the boa’s fold, 

Spanning the beech with the condor’s wing. 

Yet no foe that we fear to seek— 

The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace: 
Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek 
As ever on lover’s breast found place; 


On thy waving train is a playful hold 

Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade ; 
While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold, 

And swings and sings in the noonday shade! 

O giant strange of our southern woods, 

I dream of thee still in the well-known spot. 
Though our vessel strains o’er the ocean floods, 
And the northern forest behold thee not; 

I think of thee still with a sweet regret, 

As the cordage yields to my playful grasp— 
Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands 
yet ? [clasp ? 

Does the maiden still swing in thy giant 


THE LOST PLEIAD. 


N OT in the sky, 

Where it was seen, [wave, 

Nor on the white tops of the glistering 
Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep,— 
Though green, 

And beautiful, its caves of mystery— 

Shall the bright watcher have 
A place—and, as of old, high station keep. 

Gone, gone! 

O, never more to cheer 
The mariner who holds his course alone 
On the Atlantic, through the weary night, 
When the stars turn to watchers and do sleep, 
Shall it appear, 

With the sweet fixedness of certain light, 
Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep. 

Vain, vain! 

Hopeful most idly then, shall he look forth, 
That mariner from his bark— 

Howe’er the north [lower— 

Doth raise his certain lamp when tempests 
He sees no more that perished light again ! 
And gloomier grows the hour [ing dark, 
Which may not, through the thick and grop- 
Restore that lost and loved one to her tower. 

He looks—the shepherd on Chaldea’s hills, 
Tending his flocks— 

And wondeis the rich beacon doth not blaze, 
Gladdening his gaze; 


And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, 
Guiding him safely home through perilous ways! 
How stands he in amaze, 

Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills 
The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils 
Its leaden dews—how chafes he at the night, 
Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light, 
So natural to his sight! 

And lone, 

Where its first splendors shone, 

Shall be that pleasant company of stars: 

How should they know that death 
Such perfect beauty mars ; [breath, 

And, like the earth, its common bloom and 
Fallen from on high, 

Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die— 
All their concerted springs of harmony, 
Snapped rudely, and the generous music gone. 

A strain—a mellow— 

Of wailing sweetness, filled the earth and sky; 
The stars lamenting in unborrowed pain 
That one of the selectest ones must die ; 

Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! 
Alas! ’tis ever more the destiny. 

The hope, heart-cherished, is the soonest lost; 
The flower first budded soonest feels the frost: 
Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest ? 

And, like the pole star shooting down the sky, 
Look they not ever brightest when they fly 
The desolate home they blessed ? 





William Dean Howells. 

Novelist and Poet. 



’R. HOWELLS, whose name has long been associated with the 
best magazine literature and works of fiction, was born at 
Martin’s Ferry, Ohio, March ist, 1837. The broad and liberal 
spirit he has always exhibited may be due to the fact that 
while his father’s family was of Quaker origin, he himself 
was brought up a Swedenborgian. In early life he had much 
to do with printing and press work, journalism, and such writing as 
naturally finds its way into a country newspaper. He was employed on 
the “ Cincinnati Gazette” and “Columbus State Journal.’’ 

The first work that brought Mr. Howells into notice was his Life of 
Lincoln, which was published in i860. Here he showed a marked ability 
in grasping facts, and discriminating between what is worthy and what is 
worthless in the biography of a great man. Mr. Lincoln was thus 
brought into contact with the young author, and being favorably impressed 
with him, made him consul at Venice, a position which he held from 1861 
to 1865. During this time he familiarized himself with the Italian 
language and wrote a series of papers which were collected and published 
on “ Venetian Life,” 1866. 

When Mr. Howells returned to America he began writing for such 
newspapers as the “ New York Tribune,” and “ New York Times,” and 
such periodicals as “ The Nation,” and the “ Atlantic Monthly.” The 
responsible place of editor’s chair was filled by him on the latter periodi¬ 
cal from 1872 to 1881. After this his work for periodicals was for “ The 
Century,” and “ Harper’s Magazine.” He had already devoted some 
attention to writing poetry and had found a ready publication for his 
poems. He was also known as a critic and essayist, when in 1871 he 
published his first work of fiction, entitled “ Tbeir Wedding Journey.” 
This introduction to the great public who read fiction, was encouraging, 
and he continued to issue similar works. The best of these are, “ A 
Chance Acquaintance,” 1873; “A Foregone Conclusion,” 1874; “A 

Counterfeit Presentment,” 1877; “The Lady of the Aroostook,” 1878; 

283 




284 


WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 


“ The Undiscovered Country,” 1880 ; “ Dr. Breen’s Practice,” 1883 ; “ A 
Woman’s Reason,” 1884 ; “ The Rise of Silas Lapham,” 1885 ; “ Annie 
Kilburn,” 1888; “The Landlord at Lion’s Head,” 1897. 

It is thus seen that Mr. Howells is a voluminous author, which 
means that he is a great worker. His stray pieces, comprising contribu¬ 
tions to periodicals, are very numerous. He was an intimate friend of 
Lowell, and one of the most appreciative and just tributes to this re¬ 
nowned author is from Mr. Howells’ pen. 

Mr. Howells’ rank among American authors is high, and his position 
is well assured. While he fails frequently to get at the real heart of 
things and deals too much with details and what is superficial, he is yet 
a successful author, and his works are enjoyed by a large and intelligent 
class of readers, who are not enamored with sensational stories. 


LOST BELIEFS. 


O NE after one they left us; 

The sweet birds of our breast 
Went flying away in the morning: 
Will they come again to their nests? 

Will they come again at nightfall, 

With God’s breath in their song? 

Noon is fierce with the heats of summer, 
And summer days are long ! 


Oh, my Life! with thy upward lifting, 
Thy downward-striking roots, 
Ripening out of thy tender blossoms 
But hard and bitter fruits— 

In thy boughs there is no shelter 
For my birds to seek again ! 

Ah ! the desolate nest is broken 
And torn with storms-and rain ! 


ANDENKEN. 


T HE bobolink sings in the meadow, 
The wren in the cherry-tree : 
Come hither, thou little maiden, 
And sit upon my knee ; 

And I will tell thee a story, 

I read in a book of rhymes; 

I will but feign that it happened 
To me, one summer time, 

When we walked through the meadow 
And she and I were young ; 

The story is old and wearied 
With being said and sung. 

The story is old and wearied ; 

Ah, child! is it known to thee? 


Who was it that last night kissed thee 
Under the cherry-tree? 

Like a bird of evil presage, 

To the lonely house on the shore 
Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck, 
And shrieked at the bolted door, 

And flapped its wings in the gables, 

And shouted the well-know names, 
And buffeted the windows 
Afeared in their shuddering frames. 

It was night, and it is daytime— 

The morning sun is bland, 

The white-cap waves come rocking, 

In to the smiling land. 






WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 


285 


The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking 
In the sun so soft and bright, 

And toss and play with the dead man 
Drowned in the storm last night. 

I remember the burning brushwood, 
Glimmering all day long. 

Yellow and weak in the sunlight, 

Now leaped up red and strong, 

And fired the old dead chestnut, 

That all our years had stood, 

Gaunt, and gray and ghostly 
Apart from the sombre wood. 


I cannot sleep for seeing, 

With closed eyes to-night, 

The tree in its dazzling splendor, 
Dropping its blossoms bright; 

And old, old dreams of childhood 
Come thronging my weary brain, 
Dear foolish beliefs and longings— 

I doubt, are they real again ? 

It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing, 
But I either think or see— 

The phantoms of dead illusions 
To-night are haunting me. 


CHARACTER OF LINCOLN. 

FROM “LIFE AND SPEECHES OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.” 


N O admirer, who speaks his praise, must 
pause to conceal a stain upon his good 
name. No true man falters in his 
affection at the remembrance of any mean 
action or littleness in the life of Lincoln. 
The purity of his reputation, the greatness 
and dignity of his ambition, ennoble every 
incident in his career, and give significance to 
all the events of his past. 

It is true that simply to have split rails, 
and commanded a flat-boat, is not to have 
performed splendid actions. But the fact 
that Lincoln has done these things, and risen 
above them by his own force, confers a dignity 
upon them; and the rustic boy who is to be 
President in 1900, may well be consoled and 
encouraged in his labors when he recalls these 
incidents in the history of one whose future 
once wore no brighter aspect than his own 
wears now. 

The emigrant, at the head of the slow oxen 
that drag his household gods toward the set¬ 
ting sun—towards some Illinois yet further 
west—will take heart and hope when he re¬ 
members that Lincoln made no prouder 
entrance into the State of which he is now 
the first citizen. The young student, climb¬ 
ing unaided up the steep ascent—he who has 
begun the journey after the best hours of the 
morning are lost forever—shall not be with¬ 
out encouragement when he finds the foot¬ 


prints of another in the most toilsome win d 
ings of his path. 

Lincoln’s future success or unsuccess can 
affect nothing in the past. The grandeur of 
his triumph over all the obstacles of fortune 
will remain the same. Office cannot confer 
honors brighter than those he has already 
achieved; it is the Presidency, not a great 
man, that is elevated, if such be chosen chief 
magistrate. 

It is not as a politician alone that Lincoln 
is heard of in his early career. After Stuart’s 
election to Congress has dissolved their con¬ 
nection, Lincoln forms a partnership with 
Judge Logan, one of the first in his profession 
at Springfield, and continues the practice of 
the law with rising repute. His character¬ 
istics as an advocate are earnestness and sin¬ 
cerity of manner, and directness, conciseness, 
and strength of style; he appeals at other 
times to the weapons of good-humored ridicule 
as ably as to the heavier arms of forensic 
combat. 

He is strongest in civil cases, but in a crimi¬ 
nal cause that enlists his sympathy, he is also 
great. It is then that, the advocate’s convic¬ 
tions, presented to the jury in terse and 
forcible, yet eloquent language, sometimes 
outweigh the charge of the judge. Juries 
listen to him and concur in his arguments; 
for his truthfulness is known. 





Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

Poet and Man of Business. 


DCK-BROKER and poet—a combination so singular that we 
have no other representative of it except Mr. Stedman. One 
can easily surmise that, being warned by the unhappy fate of 
many who have sought a livelihood as writers of verse, he 
wisely chose to unite a lucrative business with poetic genius. 
And so we have an example of the pen that signs bills and 
checks writing lyrics and sonnets. 

Mr. Stedman was brought into notice in 1859 by the publication in 
the “ New York Tribune ” of a poem entitled “ The Diamond Wedding,” 
which was a humorous thrust at a wealthy Cuban who lavished in an 
ostentatious way gifts upon his bride who was a lady of New York. It 
is said that the father of the lady was so enraged that he sent a challenge 
to the poet, but for some reason the parties never met on the gory field. 
Another poem entitled, “ How Old Brown took Harper’s Ferry,” narrated 
the exploits of this famous character at the beginning of our Civil War. 

By these productions Mr. Stedman was favorably introduced to pub¬ 
lishers, and in i860 Charles Scribner issued a volume entitled “ Poems, 
Lyric and Idyllic,” which gave the author a standing at once in the liter¬ 
ary world. After a brief career of j ournalism in connection with a news¬ 
paper at Norwich, Conn., and another at Winsted in the same state, he 
was connected with the “ New York Tribune.” At the beginning of the 
war he became correspondent for the “ New York World,” and gained 
great distinction by writing a description of the first battle of Bull Run. 

His next publication was a volume of poems entitled, “Alice of Mon¬ 
mouth, an Idyll of the Great War, and other Poems.” Other works fol¬ 
lowed, and among these are “ The Blameless Prince and other Poems,” 
1869; “Poetical Works,” 1873; “Victorian Poets,” 1875, which has been 
pronounced Mr. Stedman’s best and most critical work ; “ Hawthorne and 
other Poems,” 1877; “Poems of Austin Dobson,” 1880; “Poets of Amer¬ 
ica,” 1886, and with Ellen Mackay Hutchinson he edited a “ Library of 
American Literature ” in eleven volumes. 

286 




EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 


287 


Mr. Stedman was born in Hartford, Conn., October 8, 1833. His 
mother was a gifted lady, endowed with the poetic faculty, and is the 
author of the tragedy “ Bianco Caprello.” Although he entered 
Yale College at an early age he did not graduate, but was afterward 
enrolled as one of the alumni of 1853 with the degree of Master of 
Arts, a recognition of his eminent attainments. 


A MOTHER’S PICTURE. 


S HE seemed an angel to our infant eyes! 
Once, when the glorifying moon revealed 
Her who at evening by our pillow 
kneeled— 

Soft-voiced and golden haired, from holy 
skies 

Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise— 
We looked to see the pinions half concealed. 
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield 


Her back to me, who loved her in this wise, 
And since have little known her, but have 
grown 

To see another mother, tenderly, 

Watch over sleeping children of my own. 
Perchance the years have changed her: yet 
alone 

This picture lingers; still she seems to me 
The fair young angel of my infancy. 


VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND. 


V OICE of the western wind ! 

Thou singest from afar, 
Rich with the music of a land 
Where all my memories are; 
But in thy song I only hear 
The echo of a tone 
That fell divinely on my ear 
In days forever flown. 


Star of the western sky! 

Thou beamest from afar, 

With lustre caught from eyes I knew 
Whose orbs were each a star; 

But, oh, those eyes—too wildly bright- 
No more eclipse thine own, 

And never shall I find the light 
Of days forever flown. 


THE SLEIGH-RIDE. 


H ARK ! the jingle 

Of the sleigh-bells’ song! 

Earth and air in snowy sheen com¬ 
mingle ; 

Swiftly throng 

Norseland fancies as we sail along. 

Like the maiden 
Of some fairy-tale, 

Lying spell-bound, in her diamond-laden 
Bridal veil, 

Sleeps the Earth beneath a garment pale. 


High above us 
Gleams the ancient moon, 

Gleam the eyes of shining ones that love us: 
Could their tune 

Only fill our ears at heaven’s noon, 

You and I, love, 

With a wild delight, 

Hearing that seraphic strain would die, love, 
This same night, 

Straight to join them in their starry height. 








288 


EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, 


Closer nestle, 

Dearest, to my side, 

What enchantment, in our magic vessel 
Thus to glide, 

Making music, on a silver tide! 

Jingle! jingle! 

How the fields go by! 

Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle, 
Far and nigh ; 

Is the ground beneath us, or the sky ? 

Heavenward yonder 
In the lurid north, 


I From Valhalla’s gates that roll asunder. 
Red and wroth, 

Balder’s funeral flames are blazing forth. 

O, what splendor! 

How the hues expire! 

All the elves of light their tribute render 
To the pyre, 

Clad in robes of gold and crimson fire. 

Jingle! jingle! 

Let the earth go by ! 

With a wilder thrill our pulses tingle; 

You and I 

Will shout our loves, but aye forget to sigh. 


KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES. 

[MARCH 31, 1862.] 


S O that soldierly legend is still on its jour¬ 
ney— 

That story of Kearney who knew not to 
yield! 

’Twas a day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, 
and Birney, 

Against twenty thousand he rallied the field, 
Where the red volleys poured, where the 
clamor rose highest, 

Where the dead lay in clumps through the 
dwarf oak and pine, 

Where the aim from the thicket was surest 
and nighest— 

No charge like Phil Kearney’s along the 
whole line. 

When the battle went ill, and the bravest 
were solemn, 

Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still 
held our ground, 

He rode down the length of the withering 
column, 

And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with 
a bound; 

He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of our 
powder— 

His sword waved us on and we answered 
the sign: 

Loud our cheer as we rushed, but bis laugh 
rang the louder, 

“There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, along 
the whole line! ” 


How he strode his brown steed! How we 
saw his blade brighten 

In the one hand still left—and the reins in 
his teeth! 

He laughed like a boy when the holidays 
heighten, 

But a soldier’s glance shot from his visor 
beneath. 

Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 

Asking where to go in—through the clear¬ 
ing or pine ? 

“ O, anywhere ! Forward ! ’T is all the same, 
Colonel: 

You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole 
line! ” 

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 

That hid him from sight of his brave men 
and tried ! 

Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the 
white lily, 

The flower of our knighthood, the whole 
army’s pride! 

Yet we dream that he still—in that shadowy 
region 

Where the dead form their ranks at the 
wan drummer’s sign— 

Rides on, as of old, down the length of his 
legion, 

And the word still is Forward! along the 
whole line. 







Frances Meriam Whitcher. 

Author of “ Widow Bedott Papers.” 


RIPPLE of laughter was sent over the country by the publica¬ 
tion of the “ Widow Bedott Papers ” in “ Neal’s Gazette,” of 
Philadelphia. The quaint humor, the fine delineations of char¬ 
acter and the playful descriptions of country life and society, 
brought the author into immediate notice, although for a time 
she concealed her identity, and her publisher, supposing he 
was writing to a man, addressed her as “ Dear Mr. Bedott.” 

Mr. Godey, publisher of the famous “Godey’s Ladies’ Book,” called 
on Mr. Neal to learn the name of the new author, with a view to engag¬ 
ing her for a correspondent of his periodical. To the “ Widow Bedott 
Papers,” she added “ Widow Spriggins,” which still further enhanced 
her reputation as a humorist. 

She was the daughter of Mr. Lewis Berry, of Whitesboro, New York, 
was born in 1811, married Rev. Benjamin Whitcher in 1847, au d died 
in 1852. 



WIDOW BEDOTT’S POETRY. 

PROM “WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.” 


Y ES—he was one of the best men that ever 
trod shoe-leather, husband was, though 
Miss Jinkins says (she ’twas Polly Bing- 
fiam,) she says, I never found it out till after 
he died, but that’s the consarndest lie that 
ever was told, though it’s jest a piece with 
everything else she says about me. I guess if 
everybody could see the poitry I writ to his 
memory, nobody wouldn’t think I dident set 
store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I’ll 
see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me 
wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin’s ; 
I’ll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? 
How you talk ! used to make lots on’t; haint 
so much late years. I remember once when 
Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin’ 
great cheeze, and writ a piece o’ poitry, and 
pasted on top on’t. It says : 

19 


Teach him for to proclaim 
Salvation to the folks; 

No occasion give for any blame, 

Nor wicked people’s jokes. 

And so it goes on, but I guess I won’t stop to 
say the rest on’t now, seeiu’ there’s seven and 
forty verses. 

Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully 
pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune 
o’ Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one 
I made in relation to husband; it begins as 
follows:— 

He never jawed in all his life, 

He never was onkind— 

And (tho’ I say it that was his wife) 
Such men you seldom find. 


289 





290 


FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. 


(That’s as true as the Scripturs; I never 
knowed him to say a harsh word.) 

I never changed my single lot— 

I thought ’twould be a sin— 

(Though widder Jinkins says it’s because I 
never had a chance.) Now ’tain’t for me to 
say whether I ever hud a numerous number 
o’ chances or not, but there’s them livin’ that 
viight tell if they wos a mind to; why, this 
poitry was writ on account of being joked 
about Major Coon, three years after husband 
died. I guess the ginerality o’ folks knows 
what was the nature o’ Major Coon’s feelin’s 
towards me, tho’ his wife and Miss Jinkins 
does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, 
Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up ’cause she 
knows the Major took her “ Jack at a pinch ” 
—seein’ he couldent get such as he wanted, 
he took such as he could get—but I goes on 
to say— 

I never changed my single lot, 

I thought ’twould be a sin— 

For I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott, 

I never got married agin. 

If ever a hasty word he spoke, 

His anger dident last, 

But vanished like tobacker smoke 
Afore the wintry blast. 

And since it was my lot to be 
The wife of such a man, 

Tell the men that’s after me 
To ketch me if they can. 

If I was sick a single jot, 

He called the doctor in— 

That’s a fact—he used to be scairt to death if 
anything ailed me. Now only jest think— 
widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife 
(she ’twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the 
deacon dident set no great store by me, or he 
wouldent a went off to confrence meetin’ 
when I was down with the fever. The truth 
is, they couldent git along without him no way. 
Parson Potter seldom -went to confrence meetin, 
and when he wa’n’t there, who was ther’ pray 
tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if 
husband dident do it ? 

Deacon Kenipe liadent no gift, and Deacon 


Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all 
come unto Deacon Bedott—and he was always 
ready and willin’ to do his duty, you know; 
as long as he was able to stand on his legs he 
continued to go to confrence meetin’; why, 
I’ve knowed that man to go when he couldent 
scarcely crawl on account o’ the pain in the 
spine of his back. 

He had a wonderful gift, and he wa’n’t a 
man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin— 
so you see ’twas from a sense o’ duty he went 
when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may 
say to the contrary. But where was I ? Oh!— 

If I was sick a single jot, 

He called the doctor in— 

I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott 
I never got married agin. 

A wonderful tender heart he had, 

That felt for all mankind— 

It made him feel amazin’ bad 
To see the world so blind. 

Whiskey and rum he tasted not— 

That’s as true as the Scripturs,—but if you’ll 
believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy 
that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, 
how’t she’d seen Deacon Bedott high, time 
and agin! did you ever! Well, I’m glad no¬ 
body don’t pretend to mind anything she says. 
I’ve knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and 
she never knowed how to speak the truth— 
beside she always had a pertikkeler spite 
against husband and me, and between us tew 
I’ll tell you why if you won’t mention it, for I 
make it a pint never to say nothin’ to injure 
nobody. 

Well, she was a ravin’-distracted after my 
husband herself, but it’s a long story, I’ll tell 
you about it some other time, and then you’ll 
know why widder Jinkins is eternally runnin’ 
me down. See—where had I got to? Oh, I 
remember now— 

Whiskey and rum he tasted not— 

He thought it was a sin— 

I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott 
I never got married agin. 

But now he’s dead! the thought is killin’, 
My grief I can’t control— 

He never left a single shilliu* 

His widder to console. 





FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. 


291 


But that wa’n’t his fault—he was so out o’ 
health for a number o’ year afore he died, it 
ain’t to be wondered at he dident lay up 
nothin’—however, it dident give him no great 
oneasiness—he never cared much for airthly 
riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard 
Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight 
as the skin on his back—begrudged folks 
their vittals when they come to his house! 
did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest 
man I ever see in all my born days. 

If I’d such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, 
I’d hold my tongue about my neighbor’s hus¬ 
bands. He was a dretful mean man, used to 
git drunk every day of his life, and he had an 
awful high temper—used to swear like all 
possest when be got mad—and I’ve heard my 
husband say, (and he wa’n’t a man that ever 
said anything that wa’n’t true)—I’ve heard 
him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own 
father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. 
Where was I ? Oh! “ His widder to con¬ 

sole”—ther ain’t but one more verse, tain’t 
a very lengthy poim„ 


When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, 
says he—“What did you stop so soon for?” 
—but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby’s she 
thought I’d better a’ stopt afore I’d begun— 
she’s a purty critter to talk so, I must say. 
I’d like to see some poitry o’ hern—I guess it 
would be astonishin’ stuff; and mor’n all that, 
she said there wa’n’t a word o’ truth in the 
hull on’t—said I never cared tuppence for the 
deacon. What an everlastin’ lie! Why, 
when he died, I took it so hard I went de¬ 
ranged, and took on so for a’ spell they was 
afraid they should have to send me to a Lu- 
nattic Arsenal. But that’s a painful sub¬ 
ject, I won’t dwell on’t. I conclude as fol- 
lers:— 

I’ll never change my single lot— 

I think’t would be a sin— 

The inconsolable widder o’ Deacon Bedott 
Don’t intend to get married agin. 

Excuse my cryin’—my feelin’s always over¬ 
comes me so when I say that poitry—O-o-o-o-o 


WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 

FROM “WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.” 


O REVEREND sir, I do declare 
It drives me most to frenzy, 
To think of you a lying there 
Down sick with influenzy. 

A body’d thought it was enough 
To mourn your wive’s departer, 
Without sich trouble as this ere 
To come a follerin’ arter. 

But sickness and affliction 
Are sent by a wise creation, 

And always ought to be underwent 
By patience and resignation. 


O, I could to your bedside fly, 

And wipe your weeping eyes. 

And do my best to cure you up, 

If’t wouldn’t create surprise. 

It’s a world of trouble we tarry in, 

But, Elder, don’t despair; 

That you may soon be movin’ ag’in 
Is constantly ray prayer. 

Both sick and well, you may depend 
You’ll never be forgot 

By your faithful and affectionate friend, 
Priscilla Pool Bedott. 






Mary Rice Livermore. 

Author of “What Shall We Do With Our Daughters?” 



RS. LIVERMORE is a woman of very earnest purpose, of wide 
information and of decided force of character. She was the 
daughter of Timothy Rice and was born in Boston, Mass., 
December 19, 1821. She is of Welsh descent and her father 
was an active fighter in the navy in the war of 1812. Her 
mother was a descendent of a well-known English family. 

The girl received a thorough education in the Boston public schools, 
then graduated at a female seminary at Charlestown, Mass., and acquired, 
in addition to what an ordinary girl would get, a thorough classical 
education. She was then engaged as a teacher to go to Virginia, and 
among her duties was the teaching of a lot of slaves attached to a planta¬ 
tion. She came back a pronounced abolitionist. 

She taught in a private school near Boston on her return, but had 
acquired the gift of talking in public and utilized that power for talking 
against slavery and the slave trade. In 1845 she Lad become the wife of 
the Rev. E. P. Livermore, a Universalist minister, and their tastes and 
aims being similar, they worked together happily and effectively. In 
1857 the couple moved to Chicago, where Mrs. Livermore assisted her hus¬ 
band in the publication of the Universalist organ for the Mississippi valley. 

She was earnest in all that pertained to assisting the Union troops 
during the war, and made a most creditable record, which was widely 
recognized. After the war Mrs. Livermore was associated with the 
woman suffrage movement in the United States. She is the author of a 
number of works, among which may be mentioned, “What Shall We 
Do With Our Daughters ? ” and a number of articles in the “ Arena,” 
the “ Chautauquan,” the “ Christian Advocate,” and “ Woman’s Journal.” 

Mrs. Livermore’s natural character is that of a practical philan¬ 
thropist. Her early life was such as to qualify her to sympathize with 
the poor, the down-trodden and unfortunate. Her gifts, both of pen and 
tongue, have made her one of the most noted women of America. 

292 




MARY RICE LIVERMORE. 


293 


THE NOBLEST TYPE OF WOMAN. 

FROM “WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH OUR DAUGHTERS?” 

BY PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR. 


R OSA BONHEUR has achieved world¬ 
wide fame and pecuniary independence 
as one of the most skilful painters of 
animals; the boldness and independence of 
her own character inspiring her pencil, and 
her faithfulness to nature giving great force to 
her work. The whole civilized world does 
homage to her genius ; and, during the siege 
of Paris in the Franco-Prussian war, the 
Crown Prince of Prussia gave orders that her 
studio and residence at Fontainebleau should 
be spared and respected. 

Florence Nightingale, well born, highly 
educated, and brilliantly accomplished, gave 
herself to the study of hospitals, and of 
institutions for the diseased, helpless, and 
infirm. Appreciating the work of the Sisters 
of Charity in the Catholic church, she felt the 
need of an institution which should be its 
counterpart in the Protestant Communion. 
She visited civil and military hospitals all 
over Europe, studied with the Sisters of 
Charity in Paris their system of nursing and 
hospital management, and went into training 
as a nurse in the House of the Protestant 
Deaconesses at Kaiserwerth on the Rhine. 

For ten years she served an apprenticeship, 
preparing for the great work of her life. Her 
opportunity came during the war in the 
Crimea, when through incompetence, and 
utter disregard of sanitary laws, the rate of 
mortality in the English hospitals surpassed 
that of the fiercest battles. Horror and 
indignation were felt throughout England. 
Miss Nightingale offered her services to the 
government with a corps of trained nurses, 
was accepted, and went to Constantinople. 

The disorder, the want—while storehouses 
were bursting with the needed hospital sup¬ 
plies—the incompetence, the uncleanliness, 
the suffering and death created general dis¬ 
may. Unappalled by the shocking chaos, 
Miss Nightingale ordered the storehouses at 
Scutari to be broken open, when want gave 


place to abundance; and soon her executive 
skill and rare knowledge transformed the hos¬ 
pitals into models of order and comfort. She 
spared herself no labor, sometimes standing 
twenty hours in succession giving directions, 
and refusing te leave her post, eveD when she 
broke down with hospital-fever. 

Sadly over-worked, her patience and cheer¬ 
fulness were unfailing, winning the love of 
the roughest soldiers; and, as she walked the 
wards, men too weak to speak plucked her 
gown with feeble fingers, or kissed her shadow 
as it fell athwart their pillow. She expended 
her own vitality in this work, and returned to 
England an invalid for life. But not an idle 
invalid, for from her sick-room there have 
gone plans for the improvement of hospitals 
and the training of nurses wrought out by her 
busy brain and pen. 

Caroline Herschel, sister of the great astro¬ 
nomer, was his constaut helper and faithful 
assistant, in this character receiving a salary 
from the king. In addition she found time 
to make her own independent observations, 
discovering comets, remarkable nebulse, and 
clusters of stars, and receiving from the Royal 
Society a gold medal in recognition of her 
work. 

Charlotte Bronte’s portion in life was pain 
and toil and sorrow. Her experience was a 
long struggle with every unkindness of fate, and 
she lacked every advantage supposed neces¬ 
sary to literary work. Her force of character 
and undismayed persistence triumphed over 
all hindrances. She put heart and conscience 
into books that held the literary world in 
fascination. In them she rent the shams of 
society by her keen analyses. She depicted 
life as she had known it, shorn of every 
illusion, and then beautified it by unflinching 
loyalty to duty, and unwavering fidelity to 
conscience. The publication of “ Jane Eyre” 
marked an era in the literary world not soon 
to be forgotten. 




Whitelaw Reid. 

Newspaper Editor and Diplomat. 


HITELAW REID was born in Xenia, Ohio, October 27, 1837. 
He graduated at Miami University in 1856, and in the follow¬ 
ing year took editorial charge of the “ Xenia News.” When 
the war broke out he went to Washington as the correspon¬ 
dent of the “ Cincinnati Gazette,” subsequently accompany¬ 
ing the Uuion Army on its march South, and his descriptions 
of battles were valuable contributions to the record of the war. 

In 1865 h e was invited by Horace Greeley to take an editorial position 
on the staff of the “ New York Tribune,” and upon the death of Mr. Greeley 
he succeeded to the ownership and management of that paper. Extremely 
earnest in his political views, Mr. Reid, after he became a resident of 
New York, exercised a powerful influence in local, state and national cam¬ 
paigns, and upon the accession of President Harrison in 1889 he was 
appointed United States Minister to Paris, although twice before he had 
declined a foreign portfolio. In 1892, when Mr. Harrison was a candidate 
for re-election, Mr. Reid received the nomination for Vice-president. 

He is the author of a number of books relating to the history of 
Ohio during the war, to the condition of the South after the war, and 
upon subjects of a political and journalistic character. He is regent of 
the New York State University, and a member of many social, political 
and scientific organizations. 

Mr. Reid’s first book, which was published after he had had a bril¬ 
liant career as war correspondent and journalist, was issued in 1867 an d 
entitled “After the War.” It described his experiences for one year on a 
cotton plantation in Louisiana. Then followed in 1868 a valuable histor¬ 
ical work entitled “Ohio in the War.” “Schools of Journalism” 
appeared in 1871, and “ Scholars in Politics” in 1873. 

In 1897 Mr. Reid was appointed a special envoy from the United 
States to attend the Jubilee of Queen Victoria. He and Mrs. Reid were 
invited to an audience with the Queen, and accepted an invitation from 
her to spend a night at Windsor Castle. A man of large means and 




WHITELAW REID. 


295 


active public spirit, Mr. Reid belongs to the best type of tbe American 
citizen. Mr. Reid was appointed envoy extraordinary by our govern¬ 
ment to the coronation of King Edward, and was in London when the 
coronation was postponed. He was received with marked attention. 


PATRIOTS OF THE “BUCKEYE STATE.” 

FROM “OHIO IN THE WAR.” 


T HE people who filled these regiments, and 
made these Administrations, and fur¬ 
nished these Statesmen and these Gen¬ 
erals, merited more praise than all the rest. 
They counted their sons and sent them forth. 
They followed them to the camps. They saw 
them waste in inaction and die of disease. 
They then saw them led by incompetents to 
needless slaughter. Stricken with anguish, 
they still maintained their unshaken purpose. 

They numbered the people again, and sent 
out fresh thousands. They followed them 
with generous gifts. They cared for the 
stricken families, and made desolate lives 
beautiful with the sweet charities of a gra¬ 
cious Christianity. They infused their relig 
ious zeal into the contest. They held their 
soldiers to be soldiers in a holy war; they 
truly believed that through battle and siege 
and reverse, God was waiting, in his own good 
time, to give them the victory. 

They did not shrink when they found how 
they had walked these paths of war with open 
but sightless eyes, while unseen hands were 
guiding them to ends they knew not of. After 
a season the war came very near to each one 
of them. Almost every family had in it one 
dead for the holy cause; by almost every 
hearthstone rose lamentations and the sound 
of weeping for those that were not. Then 
came the voice of the tempter. Able sons of 
the State, men foremost in her honors and 
her trust, besought them to pause, declared 
the war at once a failure and a crime, en¬ 
treated them to array their potential influ¬ 
ence against the Government in its struggle, 
and in favor of peace on any terms; con¬ 


jured them to save the blood of sons, and 
husbands and fathers. They spurned the 
temptation. By a vote more decisive than 
had been known in the history of American 
elections they rejected the tempter. Thence¬ 
forward the position of Ohio was as a watch¬ 
word to the Nation. 

It seems right that the history of such ser¬ 
vices and such devotion should be specially 
preserved. The State which contributed such 
leaders in the Cabinet, such Generals in the 
field, and an army of three hundred and ten 
thousand soldiers to follow them, may be par¬ 
doned for desiring her achievements separ¬ 
ately recorded. 

Finding them thus grouped together, those 
who come after us may trace the career of 
Grant, and Sherman, and Sheridan; of Rose- 
crans, Mitchel, McPherson, of McDowell, 
McClellan, Buell; of Gilmore, and Steedman, 
and Hazen, and Schenck, and the whole host 
of our worthies ; of Stanton, and Chase, and 
Wade: of Dennison, Tod, and Brough, and 
the two hundred and thirty military organi¬ 
zations they sent into the field. 

They may watch how by the aid of these 
the army grew into shape and substance. 
They may see how, following those, it was led 
“ always to honor, often to victory,” and at 
last to the glory of success. Then, contem¬ 
plating this whole magnificent offering to the 
National cause, they may come to say, with 
something of the pride with which we, who 
have seen these things with our eyes and heard 
them with our ears, regard the noble State, 
the gracious mother of us all, “This was 
Ohio in the War.” 






Will Carleton. 

Poet of Rural Life. 



[K have in Mr. Carleton one who is a genius in describing 
common things and the scenes of country life. He never 
flies over your head; he never drags you into the mire of 
vulgarity. The homely farmer and his plain wife appear in 
their true characters, and neither suffers from the portraiture 
the poet draws with masterly shill. 

He is easily first among the writers of the day who are describing 
country life—the greatest life of the nation — and though he uses little or 
no dialect in doing it, such poems as “ Betsy and I are Out,” “ Little 
Golden-hair ” and their companion pieces have touched the hearts of the 
American public. 

Mr. Carleton was born in Hudson, Lenawee County, Mich., October 
21, 1845. He received the ordinary education of a boy of that region of 
apple orchards, of good roads, winding beside lakes, and of good schools. 
He graduated at Hillsdale College in 1869. After his graduation he 
visited Europe and repeated the trip, making an earnest study of general 
European life as compared with the American. He began soon after his 
return a series of contributions to periodicals and magazines, and one day 
found himself suddenly famous by productions published in the east, 
“ Over the Hills to the Poorhouse ” and “ Betsy and I are Out,” being, 
doubtless, the most potent in giving him the wide reputation he so sud¬ 
denly attained. 

He has lectured in Great Britain, Canada and the United States and 
has proved an exceedingly popular man before an audience. His pub¬ 
lished books include “Poems” (Chicago, 1871), “Farm Ballads” (New 
York, 1873), “Farm Legends (1875), “Young Folk’s Centennial,” 
“Rhymes,” “ Farm Festivals,’’ “ City Ballads ” and others. With a keen 
perception of what was about him, and the gift of language for express¬ 
ing in words that which he sees and feels, Mr. Carleton has won fairly 
the position he now occupies in the literar'"’ world. He is one of the 

296 



WILL CARLETON. 


297 


graceful poetic historians of a great phase of life in the progress of the 
new world. 

Mr. Carleton’s poem “ Betsy and I are Out,” appeared in 1872 in the 
“ Toledo Blade.” It was copied into “ Harpers’ Weekly ” and illustrated. 
This was the beginning of the author’s popularity and led to his engage¬ 
ment with the Harpers for literary work. 

In his preface to the first volume of his poems Mr. Carleton modestly 
apologizes for whatever imperfections they may possess in a manner 
which gives us some insight into his literary methods. “ These poems,” 
he writes, “ have been written under various, and in some cases difficult, 
conditions : in the open air, with team afield; in the student’s den, with 
ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily about; amid the rush and 
roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not prone to follow ■ 
and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of the muses do not 
often deign to tread.” 


BETSY AND 

RAW up the papers, lawyer, and make 
’em good and stout, 

For things at home are cross-ways, and 
Betsy and I are out— 

We who have worked together so long as man 
and wife 

Must pull in single harness the rest of our 
nat’ral life. 

“ What is the matter,” says you? I swan it’s 
hard to tell? 

Most of the years behind us we’ve passed by 
very well; 

I have no other woman—she has no other 
man; 

Only we’ve lived together as long as ever we 
can. 

So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has 
talked with me ; 

And we’ve agreed together that we can never 
agree; 

Not that we’ve catched each other in any ter¬ 
rible crime; 

We’ve been gatherin’this for years, a little at 
a time. 


I ARE OUT. 

There was a stock of temper we both had for 
a start; 

Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us 
two apart; 

I had my various failings, bred in the flesh 
and bone, 

And Betsey, like all good women, had a 
temper of her own. 

The first thing, I remember, whereon we dis¬ 
agreed, 

Was somethin’ concerning heaven—a differ¬ 
ence in our creed; 

We arg’ed the thing at breakfast—we arg’ed 
the thing at tea— 

And the more we arg’ed the question, the 
more we couldn’t agree. 

And the next that I remember was when we 
lost a cow; 

She had kicked the bucket, for certain—the 
question was only—How ? 

I held my opinion, and Betsy another had ; 

And when we were done a talkin’, we both of 
us was mad. 





298 


WIRE CARLETON. 


And the next that I remember, it started in a 
joke; 

But for full a week it lasted and neither of 
us spoke. 

And the next was when I fretted because she 
broke a bowl; 

And she said I was mean and stingy, and 
hadn’t any soul. 

And so the thing kept workin’, and all the 
self-same way; 

Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something 
sharp to say,— 

And down on us came the neighbors, a couple 
o’ dozen strong, 

And lent their kindest service to help the 
thing along. 

And there have been days together—and 
many a weary week— 

When both of us were cross and spunky, and 
both too proud to speak ; 

And I have been thinkin’ and tliinkin’, the 
whole of the summer and fall. 

If I can’t live kind with a woman, why then 
I won’t at all. 

And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has 
talked with me; 

And we have agreed together that we can 
never agree; 

And what is hers shall be hers, and what is 
mine shall be mine ; 

And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it 
to her to sign. 

Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first 
paragraph— 

Of all the farm and livestock, she shall have 
her half; 

For she has helped to earn it through many 
a weary day, 

And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy 
has her pay. 

Give her the house and homestead; a man 
can thrive and roam, 

But women are wretched critters, unless they 
have a home. 

And I have always determined, and never 
failed to say, 

That Betsy never should want a home, if I 
was taken away. 


There’s a little hard money besides, that’s 
drawin’ tol’rable pay, 

A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a 
rainy day,— 

Safe in the - hands of good men, and easy to 
get at; 

Put in another clause there, and give her all 
of that. 

I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ 
her so much; 

Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock 
in such; 

True and fair I married her, when she was 
blythe and young, 

And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ 
with her tongue. 

When I was young as you, sir, and not so 
smart, perhaps, 

For me she mittened a lawyer, and several 
other chaps; 

And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken 
down, 

And for a time I was counted the luckiest 
man in town. 

Once when I had a fever—I won’t forget it 
soon— 

I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a 
loon— 

Never an hour went by me when she was out 
of sight; 

She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to 
me day and night. 

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a 
kitchen clean, 

Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever 
seen, 

And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her 
acts, 

Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told 
each other facts. 

So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go 
home to-night, 

And read the agreement to her, and see if 
it’s all right; 

And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ 
man I know— 

And kiss the child that was left to us, and out 
in the world I’ll go. 





WILL CARLETON. 


299 


And one thing put in the paper, that first to 
me didn’t occur; 

That when I am dead at last she will bring 
me back to her, 

And lay me under the maple we planted years 
ago, 

When she and I was happy, before we quar¬ 
reled so. 


And when she dies, I wish that she would be 
laid by me; 

And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll 
then agree; 

And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t 
think it queer 

If we loved each other the better because we’ve 
quarreled here. 


LITTLE GOLDEN-HAIR. 


L ITTLE Golden-hair was watching, in the 
window broad and high, 

For the coming of her father, who had 
gone the foe to fight; 

He had left her in the morning, and had told 
her not to cry, 

But to have a kiss all ready when he came 
to her at night. 

She had wandered, all the day, 

In her simple childish way, 

And had asked, as time went on, 

Where her father could have gone. 

She had heard the muskets firing, she had 
counted every one, 

Till the number grew so many that it was 
too great a load ; 

Then the evening fell upon her, clear of sound 
of shot or gun, 

And she gazed with wistful waiting down 
the dusty Concord road. 

Little Golden-hair had listened, not a single 
week before, 

While the heavy sand was falling on her 
mother’s coffin-lid; 

And she loved her father better for the loss 
that then she bore, 

And thought of him and yearned for him, 
whatever else she did. 

So she wondered all the day 
What could make her father stay, 

And she cried a little too, 

As he told her not to do. 

And the sun sunk slowly downward and went 
grandly out of sight, 

And she had the kiss all ready on his lips [ 
to be bestowed; 


But the shadows made one shadow, and the 
twilight grew to night, 

And she looked, and looked, and listened, 
down the dusty Concord road. 

Then the night grew light and lighter, and 
the moon rose full and round, 

In the little sad face peering, looking pite¬ 
ously and mild. 

Still upon the walks of gravel there was 
heard no welcome sound, 

And no father came there, eager for the kisses 
of his child. 

Long and sadly did she wait, 

Listening at the cottage-gate; 

Then she felt a quick alarm, 

Lest he might have come to harm. 

With no bonnet but her tresses, no compan¬ 
ion but her fears, 

And no guide except the moonbeams that 
the pathway dimly showed, 

With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw 
away her tears, 

And alone she bravely started down the 
dusty Concord road, 

And for many a mile she struggled, full of 
weariness and pain, 

Calling loudly for her father, that her voice 
he might not miss; 

Till at last, among the number of the wounded 
and the slain, 

Was the white face of the soldier, waiting 
for his daughter’s kiss. 

Softly to his lips she crept, 

Not to wake him as he slept; 

Then, with her young heart at rest, 

Laid her head upon his breast. 






300 


WILL CARLETON. 


And upon the dead face smiling, with the 
living one near by, 

All the night a golden streamlet of the 
moonbeams gently flowed! 


One to live an only orphan, one beneath the 
sod to lie— 

They found them in the morning on the dusty 
Concord road. 


OUR NATAL DAY. 


O H, the Fourth of July! 

When fire-crackers fly, 

And urchins in petticoats tyrants defy! 
When all the still air 
Creeps away in despair, 

And clamor is king, be the day dark or fair! 
When freedom’s red flowers 
Fall in star-spangled showers, 

And liberty capers for twenty-four hours; 
When the morn’s ushered in 
By asleep-crushing din, 

That tempts us to use philological sin ; 

When the forenoon advances 
With large circumstances, 

Subjecting our lives to debatable chances ; 
When the soldiers of peace 
Their attractions increase, 

By marching, protected with clubs of police; 
When the little toy gun 
Has its share of the fun, 

By teaching short-hand to the favorite son. 

Oh, the Fourth of July! 

When grand souls hover nigh! 

When Washington bends from the honest blue 
sky! 

When Jefferson stands — 

Famous scribe of all lands — 

The charter of heaven in his glorified hands! 
When his comrade — strong, high, 

John Adams—comes nigh, 

(For both went to their rest the same Fourth of 
July!) 


When Franklin—grand, droll— 

That could lightnings control, 

Comes here with his sturdy, progressive old 
soul: 

When freedom’s strong staff*— 

Hancock—with a laugh, 

Writes in memory’s album his huge autograph! 

But let thought have its way, 

And give memory sway ; 

Do we think of the cost of this glorified day? 
While the harvest-field waves, 

Do we think of those braves 
In the farms thickly planted with thousands of 
graves ? 

How the great flag up there, 

Clean and pure as the air, 

Has been drabbled with blood-drops, and 
trailed in despair? 

Do we know what a land 
God hath placed in our hand, 

To be made into star-gems, or crushed into sand? 
Let us feel that our race, 

Doomed to no second place, 

Must glitter with triumph, or die in disgrace! 
That millions unborn, 

At night, noon, and morn, 

Will thank us with blessings, or curse us with 
scorn, 

For raising more high 
Freedom’s flag to the sky, 

Or losing forever the Fourth of July! 








Donald Grant Mitchell. 

Famous as “ Ik Marvel.” 


PROSE poet, and author whose tender “ Reveries of a Bach¬ 
elor ” is one of the classics of the English language, Mr. 
Mitchell is one of our most delightful writers. He was born 
in Norwich, Conn., April 12, 1822. He graduated from Yale 
in the class of 1841, and went to Europe three years later. 
He journeyed through England on foot, visiting every country 
and writing short articles on his impressions. 

A year and a half was spent on the continent and on his return to 
America he published, under the nom de plume “ Ik. Marvel,” a volume 
entitled “ Fresh Gleanings, or a new Sheaf from the Old Fields of Con¬ 
tinental Europe.” In 1848 he revisited Europe, and was in Paris during 
the Revolution of 1848. His book, “ The Battle Summer,” describes 
the scenes he witnessed at that time. 

In 1850 he married Mary Pringle, and in the same year published 
the “ Reveries of a Bachelor,” on which his fame chiefly rests. “ Dream 
Life ” was published the year following. In 1854 he was appointed 
consul to Venice, and there gathered material for “ Titian and His Times.” 

In 1885 he purchased a farm of two hundred acres near New Haven, 
Conn., which he calls “ Edgewood,” and which he has made well-known 
to the public through a series of books on the practical and aesthetic 
aspects of rural life. Mr. Mitchell has contributed much to leading 
periodicals and delivered many lectures on subjects connected with litera¬ 
ture and agriculture, and has been a member of Yale Art School since 
its establishment in 1865. He has written one novel, entitled “ Dr. Johns.” 

Mr. Mitchell was the warm friend and admirer of Washington Irving 
during the last golden days of that celebrity, “ the father of American 
literature.” Irving fully appreciated the heart and head qualities of his 
young friend, who afterward furnished very entertaining and truthful 
sketches of the famous author of “The Sketch Book.” and “Rip Van 
Winkle.” 

A dreamy, poetical, tender element pervades Mr. Mitchell’s writings, 

301 




302 


DONALD GRANT MITCHELL. 


what might be called an easy charm that wins its way to the reader’s 
heart. He reminds us of his great ideal, Irving, but his subjects and 
style are his own, and his individuality, genial and attractive, appears in 
all his productions, and lends to them a notable charm. 


THE COUNTRY BOY. 

FROM “DREAM-LIFE.” 


I KNOW no nobler forage-ground for a ro¬ 
mantic, venturesome, mischievous boy, 
than the garret of an old family mansion 
on a day of storm. It is a perfect field of 
chivalry. There is great fun in groping 
through a tall barrel of books and pamphlets, 
on the look-out for startling pictures; and 
there are chestnuts in the garret, drying, 
which you have discovered on a ledge of the 
chimney; and you slide a few into your pocket, 
and munch them quietly—giving now and 
then one to Nelly, and begging her to keep 
silent;—for you have a great fear of its being 
forbidden fruit. 

Old family garrets have their stock, as I 
said, of cast-away clothes, of twenty years 
gone by; and it is rare sport to put them on ; 
buttoning in a pillow or two for the sake of 
good fulness; and then to trick out Nelly in 
some strange-shaped head-gear and old-fash¬ 
ioned brocade petticoat caught up with pins; 
and in such guise, to steal cautiously down 
stairs, and creep slyly into the sitting-room— 
half afraid of a scolding, and very sure of 
good fun ;—trying to look very sober, and yet 
almost ready to die with the laugh that you 
know you will make. And your mother tries 
to look harshly at little Nelly for putting on 
her giandmotlier’s best bonnet; but Nelly’s 
laughing eyes forbid it utterly, and the mother 
spoils all her scolding with a perfect shower 
of kisses. 

After this, you go marching, very stately, 
into the nursery; aud utterly amaze the old 
nurse; and make a deal of wonderment for 
the staring, half-frightened baby, who drops 
his rattle, and makes a bob at you, as if he 
would jump into your waistcoat pocket. 


You have looked admiringly many a day 
upon the tall fellows who play at the door of 
Dr. Bidlow’s school; you have looked with 
reverence. Dr. Bidlow seems to you to belong 
to a race of giants; and yet he is a spare, thin 
man, with a hooked nose, a large, flat, gold 
watch-key, a crack in his voice, a wag, and 
very dirty wristbands. 

You, however, come very little under his 
control; you enter upon the proud life in the 
small-boys’ department—under the dominion 
of the English master. He is a different per¬ 
sonage from Dr. Bidlow; he is a dapper, little 
man, who twinkles his eye in a peculiar fash¬ 
ion, and steps very springily around behind 
the benches, glancing now and then at the 
books—cautioning one scholar about his dog’s 
ears, and startling another from a doze by a 
very loud and odious snap of his forefinger 
upon the boy’s head. 

There are some tall trees that overshadow 
an angle of the school-house: and the larger 
scholars play surprising gymnastic tricks upon 
their lower limbs. 

In time, however, you get to performing 
some modest experiments yourself upon the 
very lowest limbs,—taking care to avoid the 
observation of the larger boys, who else might 
laugh at you : you especially avoid the notice 
of one stout fellow in pea-green breeches, 
who is a sort of “ bully ” among the small 
boys. 

One day you are well in the tops of the 
trees, and being dared by the boys below, you 
venture higher — higher than any boy has 
gone before. You feel very proud, so you ad- * 
vance cautiously out upon the limb : it bends 
and sways fearfully with your weight; pres- 




DONALD GRANT MITCHELL. 


303 


ently it cracks: you try to return, but it is 
too late; then comes a sense of dizziness—a 
succession of quick blows, and a dull, heavy 
crash! 

After this, come those long, weary days of 
confinement, when you lie still, through all 


the hours of noon, looking out upon the cheer¬ 
ful sunshine, only through the windows of 
your little room. Yet it seems a grand thing 
to have the whole household attendant upon 
you ; and when you groan with pain, you are 
sure of meeting sad, sympathizing looks. 


THE OLD SQUIRE. 

FROM “DREAM-LIFE.” 


F RANK has a grandfather living in the 
country, a good specimen of the old- 
fashioned New England farmer. He 
is a Justice of the Peace, and many are the 
country courts that you peep upon, with Frank, 
from the door of the great dining-room. You 
watch curiously the old gentleman, sitting in 
his big arm-chair, with his spectacles in their 
silver case at his elbow, and his snuff-box in 
hand, listening attentively to some grievous 
complaint; you see him ponder deeply—with 
a pinch of snuff to aid his judgment,—and 
you listen with intense admiration, as he gives 
a loud, preparatory “Ahem,” and clears away 
the intricacies of the case with a sweep of that 
strong practical sense which distinguishes the 
New England farmer,—getting at the very 
hinge of the matter, without any consciousness 
of his own precision, and satisfying the de¬ 
fendant by the clearness of his talk, as much 
as by the leniency of his judgment. 

He farms some fifteen hundred acres,— 
“suitably divided,” as the old-school agricul¬ 
turists say, into “ woodland, pasture and till¬ 
age.” The farm-house, a large irregularly 
built mansion of wood, stands upon a shelf of 
the hills looking southward, and is shaded by 
century-old oaks. The barns and outbuild¬ 
ings are grouped in a brown phalanx a little 
to the northward of the dwelling. Between 
them a high timber gate opens upon the scat¬ 
tered pasture-lands of the hills. Opposite to 
this, and across the farmyard, which is the 
lounging-place of scores of red-necked turkeys, 
and of matronly hens, clucking to their callow 
brood, another gate of similar pretensions 
opens upon the wide meadow-land. 

So it is, that as you lie there upon the sunny 
greensward, at the old Squire’s door, you 


muse upon the time when some rich-lying 
land, with huge granaries and cozy old man¬ 
sion sleeping under the trees, shall be yours; 
—when the brooks shall water your meadows, 
and come laughing down your pasture lands; 
—when the clouds shall shed their spring fra¬ 
grance upon your lawns, and the daisies bless 
your paths. 

You will then be a Squire, with your cane, 
your lean-limbed hound, your stocking-leg of 
specie, and your snuff-box. You will be the 
happy and respected husband of some tidy old 
lady in black and spectacles,—a little phthis- 
icky, like Frank’s grandmother,—and an ac¬ 
complished cook of stewed pears, and Johnny- 
cakes ! 

Being a visitor, and in the Squire’s pew, 
you are naturally an object of considerable 
attention to the girls about your age; as well 
as to a great many fat old ladies in iron spec¬ 
tacles, who mortify you excessively by patting 
you under the chin after church; and insist 
upon mistaking you for Frank; and force 
upon you very dry cookies, spiced with cara¬ 
way seeds. 

The farmers you have a high respect for;— 
particularly for one weazen-faced old gentle¬ 
man in a brown surtout, who brings his whip 
into church with him, who sings in a very 
strong voice, and who drives a span of gray 
colts. Another townsman, who attracts your 
attention is a stout deacon, who before enter¬ 
ing always steps around the corner of the 
church and puts his hat upon the ground to 
adjust his wig in a quiet way. In church you 
innocently think how hypocritical it is in a 
deacon to pretend to lean his head on his 
hand when he is only holding on his wig, and 
trying to hide his baldness. 







Theodore Roosevelt. 

Author, Statesman and President of the United States. 


. ROOSEVELT is the first President our country has had 
who held a conspicuous position in the ranks of authorship. 
It may be said of him that he was gifted with the pen before 
he was mighty with the sword. His style is concise, free from 
ornament, and he knows how to express his thoughts in terse, 
vigorous English. He rightly assumes that straightforward, 
forceful expression is more effective that polished periods. 

A man of great energy, physical vigor, and fond of outdoor life and 
wholesome sports, he is a type of that sturdy manhood which is admired 
by the young men of our country. Of good birth and culture, he is far 
from being an aristocrat, and is as much at home with the rough cowboys 
of our western plains as he is with statesmen and leaders of public 
opinion. He evidently aims to adapt himself to every new situation and 
emergency. 

Mr. Roosevelt entered upon the responsible duties of President upon 
the death of the martyred and lamented McKinley. Statesman, author, 
ranchman and “ rough rider,” he was born in New York City, October 
27, 1858. He was educated at Harvard, and afterward traveled in 
Europe. Returning to America he was elected to the State Assembly at 
Albany, and was always active in legislation in which reform measures 
were at stake. In 1884 Mr. Roosevelt purchased a ranch in Montana, 
and spent much of his time among the cowboys of the West. 

Four years later he was appointed member of the United States civil 
service commission, resigning in 1895 to become president of the New 
York Board of Police Commissioners. In 1897 he became Assistant 
Secretary of the Navy, and on the outbreak of the war with Spain helped 
to organize (subsequently becoming the regiment’s lieutenant-colonel) the 
“ Rough Riders,” composed of crack shots and fighters from both East 
and West. He led the regiment up San Juan Hill, at Santiago, July 1, 
1898, and was soon afterward promoted to its colonelcy. On his return 
to New York he was tendered the Republican nomination for Governor, 

304 






THEODORE ROOSEVEET. 


305 


and was elected. He was elected Vice-President of the United States on 
tlie McKinley ticket November 6, 1900. 

Mr. Roosevelt’s first published work was a “ History of the United 
States Navy,” which is considered authority on the subject of which it 
treats, and is written without partisan bias or those ignorant criticisms of 
naval commanders which have so frequently characterized authors who 
knew little or nothing of the officers of our navy and the part they per¬ 
formed in active service. History should be a record of deeds, not of 
individual opinions. Mr. Roosevelt is the author of a large and valuable 
work, “ The Winning of the West,” and other works that are important 
contributions to our literature. 


THE FIGHT AT SANTIAGO. 

FROM “THE ROUGH RIDERS.” 


T HE fight was now on in good earnest and 
the Spaniards on the hills were engaged 
in heavy volley firing. The Mauser 
bullets drove in sheets through the trees and 
tall jungle grass, making a peculiar whirring 
or rustling sound ; some of the bullets seemed 
to pop in the air so that we thought they were 
explosive; and, indeed, many of those which 
where coated with brass did explode, in the 
sense that the brass coat was ripped off, making 
a thin plate of hard metal with a jagged edge, 
which inflicted a ghastly wound. 

The shots were fired from rifles carrying 
smokeless powder, The Mauser bullets them¬ 
selves made a small clean hole, with the result 
that the wound healed in a most astonishing 
manner. One or two of our men who were 
shot in the head had the skull blown open, 
but elsewhere the wounds from the minute 
steel-coated bullet, with its very high velocity, 
were certainly nothing like as serious as those 
made by the old large-calibre, low-power rifle. 
If a man were shot through the heart, spine 
or brain, he was, of course, instantly killed; 
but very few of the wounded died—even 
under the appaling conditions which pre¬ 
vailed, owing to the lack of attendance and 
supplies in the field-hospitals with the army. 

While we were lying in reserve we were 
suffering nearly as much as afterward when 
we charged. I think that the bulk of the 
20 


Spanish fire was practically unaimed, or at 
least not aimed at any particular man, and only 
occasionally at a particular body of men ; but 
they swept the whole field of battle up to the 
edge of the river, and man after man in our 
ranks fell dead or wounded, although I had 
the troopers scattered out far apart taking 
advantage of every scrap of cover. 

Devereux was daugerously shot while he 
sat with his men on the edge of the river. A 
young West Point cadet, Ernest Haskell, who 
had taken his holiday with us as an acting 
Second Lieutenant, was shot through the 
stomach. He had shown great coolness and 
gallantry, which he displayed to an even more 
marked degree after being wounded, shaking 
my hand and saying : “ All right, Colonel; 
I’m going to get well. Don’t bother about 
me, and don’t let any man come away with 
me.” When I shook hands with him I 
thought he would surely die, yet he recovered. 

The most serious loss that I, and the regi¬ 
ment, could have suffered befell just before 
we charged. Bucky O’Neill was strolling up 
and down in front of his men smoking his 
cigarette, for he was inveterately addicted to 
the habit. He had a theory that an officer 
ought never to take cover—a theory which 
was, of course, wrong, though in a volunteer 
organization the officers should certainly ex¬ 
pose themselves very fully simply for the effect 




806 


THEODORE ROOSEVELT. 


on the men; our regimental toast on the 
transport running: “ The officers: may the 

war last until each is killed, wounded or 
promoted.” 

As O’Neill moved to and fro, his men 
begged him to lie down, and one of the ser¬ 
geants said: “Captain, a bullet is sure to 
hit you.” O’Neill took his cigarette out of 
his mouth and blowing out a cloud of smoke, 
laughed and said : “ Sergeant, the Spanish 

bullet isn’t made that will kill me.” A little 
later he discussed for a moment with one of 
the regular officers the direction from which 
a Spanish fire was coming. As he turned on 
his heel a bullet struck him in the mouth and 
came out at the back of his head; so that 
even before he fell his wild and gallant soul 
had gone out into the darkness. 

My orderly was a brave young Harvard 
boy, Sanders, from the quaint old Massachu¬ 
setts town of Salem. The work of an orderly 
on foot, under the blazing sun, through the 
hot and matted jungles, was very severe and 
finally the heat overcame him. He dropped ; 
nor did he ever recover fully, and later he 
died from fever. In his place I summoned a 
trooper whose name I did not know. Shortly 
afterward, while sitting beside the bank, I 
directed him to go back and ask whatever 
general he came across if I could not advance, 
as my men were being much cut up. He stood 
up to salute and then pitched forward across 
my knees, a bullet having gone through his 
throat, cutting the carotid. 


When O’Nell was shot, his troop, who were 
devoted to him, were for the moment at a loss 
who to follow. One of their number, Henry 
Bardshar, a huge Arizona miner, immediately 
attached himself to me as my orderly, and 
from that moment he was closer to me, not 
only in the fight, but throughout the rest of 
the campaign, than any other man, not even 
excepting the color sergeant, Wright. 

[Colonel Roosevelt afterward received the order to ad¬ 
vance, and continues his graphic narrative, as follows:] 

A curious incident occurred as I was get¬ 
ting the men started forward. Always when 
men have been lying down under cover for 
some time and are required to advance, there 
is a little hesitation, each looking to see 
whether the others are going forward. As I 
rode down the line calling to the troopers to 
go forward, and rasping brief directions to 
the captains and lieutenants, I came upon a 
man lying behind a little bush, and ordered 
him to jump up. 

I do not think he understood that we were 
making a forward move, and he looked up at 
me for a moment with hesitation; and I again 
bade him rise, jeering him and saying: “ Are 

you afraid to stand up when I am on horse¬ 
back ? ” As I spoke he suddenly fell forward 
on his face, a bullet having struck him and 
gone through him lengthwise. I suppose the 
bullet had been aimed at me ; at any rate, I, 
who was on horseback in the open, was unhurt, 
and the man lying flat on the ground in the 
cover beside me, was killed. 


EULOGY ON PRESIDENT McKINLEY. 

FROM FIRST MESSAGE TO CONGRESS. 


I T is not too much to say that at the time of 
President McKinley’s death he was the 
most widely loved man in all the United 
States, while we have never had any public 
man of his position who had been so wholly 
free from the bitter animosities incident to 
public life. His political opponents were the 
first to bear the heartiest and most generous 
tribute to the broad kindliness of nature, the 
sweetness and gentleness of character which 
so endeared him to his close associates. To a 
standard of lofty integrity in public life he 


united the tender affections and home virtues 
which are all important in the makeup of 
national character. A gallant soldier in the 
great war for the Union, he also shone as an 
example to all our people because of his con¬ 
duct in the most sacred and intimate of home 
relations. 

Wealth was not struck at when the Presi¬ 
dent was assassinated, but the honest toil 
which is content with moderate gains after a 
lifetime of unremitting labor, largely in the 
service of the public. 





Charles Fenno Hoffman. 

American Poet and Novelist. 


HIS popular American writer was born in New York in 1806, 
and graduated at Columbia College. By a painful accident he 
lost his right leg above the knee when a student in the prepar¬ 
atory school, but this did not seem to affect his animal spirits, 
and although he did not take high rank in college he was very 
popular among his fellow-students. 

He entered upon the legal profession, but was unfitted for this by 
his love of books, society, and the rod and gun. His feelings at this 
period are described in some rhymes, entitled “ Forest Musings,” from 
which the following stanza shows the fine relish for forest-life and scenery 
which has thrown a peculiar charm around every production from his pen: 

The hunt is up— 

. The merry woodland shout, 

That rung these echoing glades about 
An hour agone, 

Hath swept beyond the eastern hills, 

Where, pale and lone. 

The moon her mystic circle fills; 

A while across the setting sun’s broad disk 
The dusky larch, 

As if to pierce the blue o’erhanging arch, 

Lifts its tall obelisk. 

Mr. Hoffman was a contributor to the popular journal known as 
“ The New York American,” and many of the most brilliant articles 
which appeared in that famous periodical were from his pen. In 1833, 
for the benefit of his health, he left New York on a travelling tour to the 
far West, and afterward produced an interesting descriptive work entitled, 
“ Winter in the West.” He edited successively “ The American Monthly 
Magazine ” and “ The New York Mirror.” Among his works are, “ The 
Vigil of Faith, and other Poems,” and a number of songs. 

“No American,” says R. W. Griswold, “is comparable to him as a 
song writer.” He published in 1840 “ Greyslaer,” a novel. It was suc¬ 
cessful, two editions having appeared in the author’s native city, one in 

307 




308 


CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 


Philadelphia, and a fourth in London, in the same year. It placed him 
in the front rank of American novelists. He describes in it, with remark¬ 
able felicity, American forest life and savage warfare, and gives a truer 
idea of the border contests of the Revolution than any former history of 
the period that has been published. 

The celebrated Knickerbocker Magazine was first published under 
the editorial auspices of Mr. Hoffman. Several works issued from his 
pen, all of which were well received. Although some of his pieces are 
exquisitely finished, they have all evidently been thrown off without labor, 
in moments of feeling. Griswold compares his melodies to the richest 
of those written by Herrick and Waller. 

In 1849 Mr. Hoffman was attacked with a mental derangement, and 
from that time his mind was under a cloud. He died at Harrisburg, Pa., 
June 7, 1884. _ 


THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS LADY-LOVE. 


W END, love, with me, to the deep woods, 
wend, 

Where far in the forest the wild 
flowers keep, 

Where no watching eye shall over us bend, 
Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. 
Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole’s hue, 
Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit, 
From the saffron orchis and lupin blue, 

And those like the foam on my courser’s bit. 

One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, 
One hand of each on the bridle meet; 

And beneath the wrist that entwines me there, 
An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. 


I will sing thee many a joyous lay, 

As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, 
While the winds that over the prairie play 
Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride. 

Our home shall be by the cool, bright streams, 
Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, 
And our hearth shall smile like the sun’s 
warm gleams 

Through the branches around our lodge that 
meet. 

Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, 
Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, 
Where no watching eye shall over us bend, 
Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. 


MONTEREY. 


W E were not many, we who stood 

Before the iron sleet that day; 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have with us been at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed 
In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 

Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round him wailed 
Their dying shout at Monterey. 


And on, still on, our column kept 

Through walls of flame its withering way; 
Where fell the dead, the living stept, 

Still charging on the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past, 

And braving full their murderous blast, 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 






CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 


309 


Our banners on those turrets wave, 

Ami there our evening bugles play; 
Where orange-boughs above their grave, 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 


We are not many, we who pressed 
Beside the brave who fell that day; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He’d rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey? 


THE FAREWELL. 


T HE conflict is over, the struggle is past, 

I have looked—I have loved—I have 
worshipped my last, 

And now back to the world, and let Fate do 
her worst 

On the heart that for thee such devotion hath 
nursed: 

To thee its best feelings were trusted away, 
And life hath hereafter not one to betray. 

Yet not in resentment thy love I resign ; 

I blame not—upbraid not—one motive of 
thine; 

I ask not what change has come over thy 
heart, 

I reck not what chances have doomed us to 
part; 


I but know thou hast told me to love thee no 
more, 

And I still must obey where I once did 
adore. 

Farewell, then, thou loved one—O! loved but 
too well, 

Too deeply, too blindly, for language to 
tell— 

Farewell! thou hast trampled love’s faith in 
the dust, 

Thou hast torn from my bosom its hope and 
its trust! 

Yet, if thy life’s current with bliss it would 
swell, 

I would pour out my own in this last fond 
farewell! 


THE ORIGIN OF MINT JULEPS. 


A nd first behold this cordial Julep here, 

That flames and dances in its crystal bounds, 

With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed ; 

Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thome 
In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, 

Is of such power to stir up Joy as this, 

To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst.— Milton — Comus. 


5 r I ''IS said that the gods, on Olympus of old, 
| (And who the bright legend profanes 
with a doubt ?) 

One night, ’mid their revels, by Bacchus were 
told 

That his last butt of nectar had somehow 
run out! 

But, determined to send round the goblet 
once more, 

They sued to the fairer immortals for aid 

In composing a draught, which, till drinking 
were o’er, 

Should cast every wine ever drank in the 
shade. 


Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her corn 
And the spirit that lives in each amber 
hued grain, 

And which first had its birth from the dews 
of the morn, 

Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops 
again. 

Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board 
Were scattered profusely in every one’s 
reach, 

When called on a tribute to cull from the 
hoard, 

Expressed the mild juice of the delicate 
peach. 







310 


CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 


The liquids were mingled, while Venus looked 
on, 

With glances so fraught with sweet magical 
power, 

That the honey of Hybla, e’en when they were 
gone, 

Has never been missed in the draught from 
that hour. 

Flora then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook, 

And with roseate fingers pressed down in 
the bowl, 


All dripping and fresh as it came from the 
brook, 

The herb whose aroma should flavor the 
whole. 

The draught was delicious, each god did ex¬ 
claim, 

Though something yet wanting they all did 
bewail; 

But juleps the drink of immortals became, 

When Jove himself added a handful of 
hail. 


WE PARTED 

W E parted in sadness, but spoke not of 
parting; 

We talked not of hopes that we both 
must resign, 

I saw not her eyes, and but one tear-drop 
starting, 

Fell down on her hand as it trembled in 
mine: 

Each felt that the past we could never recover, 
Each felt that the future no hope could 
restore; 

She shuddered at wringing the heart of her 
lover, 

I dared not to say I must meet her no 
more. 


IN SADNESS. 

Long years have gone by, and the spring-time 
smiles ever 

As o’er our young loves it first smiled in 
their birth. 

Long years have gone by, yet that parting, O! 
never 

Can it be forgotten by either on earth. 

The note of each wild bird that carols toward 
heaven, 

Must tell her of swift-winged hopes that 
were mine, 

And the dew that steals over each blossom at 
even, 

Tells me of the tear-drop that wept their 
decline. 


THE REMONSTRANCE. 


Y OU give up the world! why, as well 
might the sun, 

When tired of drinking the dew from 
the flowers, 

While his rays, like young hopes, stealing off 
one by one, 

Die away with the muezzin’s last note 
from the towers, 

Declare that he never would gladden again, 
With one rosy smile, the young morn in its 
birth; 

But leave Weeping Day, with her sorrowful 
train 

Of hours, to grope o’er a pall-covered 
earth. 


The light of that soul once so brilliant and 
steady, 

So far can the incense of flattery smother, 

That, at thought of the world of hearts con¬ 
quered already, 

Like Macedon’s madman, you weep for 
another ? 

0! if sated with this, you would seek worlds ' 
untried, 

And fresh as was ours, when first we 
began it, 

Let me know but the sphere where you next 
will abide, 

And that instant, for one, I am off for that 
planet. 







Mary Virginia Terhune. 

Known by the Pseudonym of “ Marion Harland.” 


HIS popular authoress, whose maiden name was Hawes, takes 
one of her Christian names from her native state, as she was 
born in Amelia county, Virginia, December 31, 1831. She 
began to write for periodicals at a very early age, and when 
sixteen years old sent to a magazine an article entitled, “ Mar¬ 
rying Through Prudential Motives,” which was reprinted in 
England, translated for a French journal, retranslated for a London 
magazine, and then republished in this country. 

In 1856 she married Rev. Edward Payson Terhune, pastor of a 
church in Brooklyn, where she resided for a number of years. In con¬ 
nection with her writings of a purely literary character, she turned her 
attention to domestic economy and soon became an authority on all mat¬ 
ters pertaining to the household, care and management of children, etc. 
After having edited a monthly called “ Babyhood,” and special depart¬ 
ments in “ Wide Awake,” and “ St. Nicholas,” she established in 1888 a 
magazine called the “ Home-Maker.” 

Her published stories include “ Alone,” “ Moss Side,” “ Sunny 
Bank,” “ At Last,” “Jessamine,” “ Eve’s Daughters,” and the “ Common 
Sense Series ” of books on domestic economy. To the above must be 
added “Judith,” “ A Gallant Fight,” and (< His Great Self.” 

Marion Harland has always been active in charitable work and is 
highly esteemed among various women’s organizations. 



HOME AMUSEMENTS 

HE mother who fails to consider that all 
work and no play makes Jack—and, 
incidentally, Jill—a dull child, labors 
under a great error. We older people are 
prone to lose the memory of the fact that 
we were once young. But not long ago I 
heard a girl express grave-doubts as to whether 
her mother had ever been less than forty-five. 


FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 

“ I know,” she explained, “ that she was 
always dutiful and industrious, and never 
frivolous or indiscreet. And that is why she 
does not understand me or my love of fun. 
Work, and the consciousness of duty per¬ 
formed, satisfy her. But I want play some¬ 
times ! ’ ’ 

It is this lamentable lack of comprehension' 

311 






312 


MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE- 


and the paucity of amusements in the honje, 
that send Jack to the neighboring engine- 
houses, the bowling-alley, and, later, to the 
pool-room and saloon. Jill, less prone to 
wander and surrounded by ihe convention¬ 
alities that hedge in a girl as with a triple- 
barbed wire fence, must, perforce, eat her heart 
out at home, confiding her woes to the pages 
of an unresponsive Diary, or, in open defiance, 
set at naught paternal authority, and seek 
friends and pleasures where she will. 

To avoid all these evils, then, is the mother’s 
province. She and Home are the ties that 
must bind her children to the Right. We 
appreciate this fact to-day more than did our 
forefathers. Yet, fifty years ago, a good Pres¬ 
byterian elder insisted that all his eight child¬ 
ren should be taught to dance, and that each 
should learn to play on some musical instru¬ 
ment. Regardless of the wonder, even the 
censure of reputable church-members, he had 
his way. When the young people wished an 
evening’s amusement, they had only to invite 
a friend to come in and they had enough per¬ 
sons to form a quadrille, while each took a 
turn in supplying music for the dance. 

Musical evenings were to be had for the 
asking, and together they learned and desired 
opera. The result was just what might have 
been expected. Of the girls and boys that 
grew to man’s and woman’s estate, not one 
“went wroug ” Each took his or her place 
in church and society, and in time they founded 
homes of their own as happy and as cheerful 
as the one in which they had learned what the 
word “ home ” meant- 

From early childhood the boys and girls 
should be taught that recreation may be had 
within doors, without going abroad to seek it. 
Is it any wonder that the children, as full of 
life and spirits as young colts, should seek 
pleasures ? School-hours and study-hours, over 
thetoo-short winter day is past, and something 
must be done in the long evening before bed¬ 
time. What shall it be? In one home the 
mother reads aloud to the boys, who look 
forward to this hour as a warm and restful 
time. Brains are weary with study; eyes 


ache with going over figures, charts and 
maps. 

It is good to lie on the couch, or lean back 
in an easy chair while mother reads “The 
Iliad,” “ The Odyssey,” or such novels as the 
“ Tale of Two Cities,” “ David Copperfield,” 
or “ Old Curiosity Shop.” This is taking in 
learning, literature and rest at the same time. 

In another household where the boys and 
girls are older, Shakespeare is read. A play 
is chosen and each member of the family 
takes the character assigned him by the father 
aud mother, and reads his part with the ex¬ 
pression he thinks proper. Each must be 
willing to be corrected in intonation or expres¬ 
sion, and all mooted points are referred to the 
elders. The girls bring their needle-work to 
the readings and each may embroider upon 
the Christmas-gift she has in hand while the 
character she represents is not upon the stage. 

There are games galore from which to 
choose. Croquinole is generally liked, and 
causes much merriment. Keep such things 
as dominoes, chess and backgammon boards 
aud men near at hand, so that the children 
will naturally turn to them. The game of 
Halma is simple and interesting, where there 
is scarcely a school-child in the country who 
does not understand and like Parchesi. 

But beside these amusements which the 
children call “ sitting-still games,” let them 
once in a while participate in something noisy. 
All young creatures like to make a noise. It 
is inexplicable, but true, and Nature must 
sometimes have her way. 

Colts kick and squeal, puppies jump aud 
yelp, and boys—want to do the same ! 

Therefore, once in a while remove the bric- 
a-brac to a safe place, set the chairs back 
against the wall, and let all have a game of 
“Blind Man’s Buff,” or “Dumb Crambo.” 
Indulge occasionally in the game known as 
“Shouting Proverbs.” You will, perhaps, 
have to clap your hands over your ears, but 
the children will be ecstatic, and each will 
feel a thrill of wild delight in shouting his 
“word” with all the might of his healthy 
young lungs. 



Elizabeth Oakes Smith. 

Writer of Fiction and Verse. 


WRITER of both verse and prose and with equal facility appar¬ 
ently in each, Mrs. Smith has long been favorably known to 
the reading public. She is quick to catch the signs of any new 
and philanthropic effort intended to elevate woman and benefit 
society. Of good old Puritan stock on both sides of her ances¬ 
try, she has maintained the reputation of that stock for sobriety, 
vigor of intellect and close adherence to inward convictions. 

In speaking of her one author says, “ Her productions are character¬ 
ized rather by a passionate and lofty imagination, than by fancy, and by 
a subtle vein of philosophy more than by sentiment, though in the latter 
she is by no means deficient.” She contributed in early life poems and 
prose pieces to various periodicals after the custom of her time, and was 
not known by her real name until long afterwards. 

She was born in Cumberland, near Portland, Maine, on August 12, 
1806. Her maiden name was Prince, and at an early age she was mar¬ 
ried to Mr. Seba Smith, who was engaged in newspaper work. Mr. 
Smith was a man of excellent literary ability, and under the pen-name 
of “Jack Downing’’ he gained a national reputation. It is undoubtedly 
true that he was greatly assisted in his labors by his talented wife. 

Mrs. Smith’s poetic romance entitled “ The Sinless Child,” was first 
published in the “ Southern Literary Messenger.” This work brought 
her at once into prominence, opened the way for the exercise of her lit¬ 
erary inclinations, and the reputation she had already gained was main¬ 
tained and enhanced by other productions following rapidly from her pen. 
Her first published work, “ Riches Without Wings,” was issued in 1838. 
She removed to New York with her husband in 1842 and soon afterward 
published a novel entitled “ The Western Captive,” and also a singular 
tale entitled “ The Salamander; a Legend for Christmas.” 

Her versatile pen was also turned in the direction of tragedy, and 
she was the author of “ The Roman Tribute, a Tragedy in Five Acts,” 

which was founded on the historic event of Constantinople being exempted 

313 





314 


ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 


by Attila from destruction on account of a tribute paid by Theodosius. 
Another tragedy is entitled “Jacob Leisler,” which is founded on a dra¬ 
matic incident in the colonial history of New York. Both of these plays 
were quite successful. 

“ Woman and Her Needs ” was published in 1847 1 M Hints on Dress 
and Beauty” in 1852. These works were followed by “ The Bald Eagle ; ” 
“ The Newsboy; ” “ The Two Wives ; ” “ Kitty Howard’s Journal,” and 
“ Destiny, a Tragedy.’’ 


THE 

A LL day, like some sweet bird, content to 
sing 

In its small cage, she moveth to and fro— 
And ever and anon will upward spring 

To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below, 
The murmur’d melody of pleasant thought, 
Unconscious uttered, gentle-toned and low. 
Light household dutes, evermore inwrought 


WIFE. 

With placid fancies of one trusting heart 
That lives but in her smile, and turns 

From life’s cold seeming and the busy mart, 
With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns 
To be refreshed where one pure altar burns. 
Shut out from hence the mockery of life, 
Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, 
trusting wife. 


THE MERRY BROOK. 


W HITHER away, thou merry Brook, 
Whither away so fast, 

With dainty feet through the 
meadow green, 

And a smile as you hurry past ? ” 

The Brook leaped on in idle mirth, 

And dimpled with saucy glee; 

The daisy kissed in lovingness, 

And made with the willow free. 

I heard its laugh adown the glen, 

And over the rocky steep, 

Away where the old tree’s roots were bare 
In the waters dark and deep; 

The sunshine flashed upon its face, 

And played with flickering leaf— 

Well pleased to dally in its path, 

Though the tarrying were brief. 

“ Now stay thy feet, oh restless one, 

Where droops the spreading tree, 

And let thy liquid voice reveal 
Thy story unto me.” 

The flashing pebbles lightly rung, 

As the gushing music fell, 


The chiming music of the brook, 

From out the woody dell. 

“ My mountain home was bleak and high. 

A rugged spot and drear, 

With searching wind and raging storm, 
And moonlight cold and clear. 

I longed for a greeting cheery as mine, 
For a fond and answering look 
But none were in that solitude 
To bless the little brook. 

“ The blended hum of pleasant sounds 
Came up from the vale below, 

And I wished that mine were a lowly lot, 
To lapse, and sing as I go; 

That gentle things, with loving eyes, 
Along my path should glide, 

And blossoms in their loveliness 
Come nestling to my side. 

“ I leaped me down: my rainbow robe 
Hung shivering to the sight, 

And the thrill of freedom gave to me 
New impulse of delight. 






ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 


315 


A joyous welcome the sunshine gave, 

The bird and the swaying tree ; 

The spear-like grass and blossoms start 
With joy at sight of me. 

“ The swallow comes with its bit of clay, 
When the busy Spring is here. 

And twittering bears the moistened gift 
A nest on the eaves to rear; 

The twinkling feet of flock and herd 
Have trodden a path to me, 

And the fox and the squirrel come to drink 
In the sade of the alder-tree. 

“ The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot, 
Comes hither with me to play, 

And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart 
As he dashes the merry spray. 

I turn the mill with answering glee, 

As the merry spokes go round, 


And the gray rock takes the echo up, 
Rejoicing in the sound. 

“ The old man bathes his scattered locks, 
And drops me a silent tear— 

For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face 
Look up from the waters clear. 

Then I sing in his ear the very song 
He heard in years gone by; 

The old man’s heart is glad again, 

And a joy lights up his eye.” 

Enough, enough, thou homily brook ! 

I’ll treasure thy teachings well, 

And I will yield a heartfelt tear 
Thy crystal drops to swell; 

Will bear like thee a kindly love 
For the lowly things of earth, 
Remembering still that high and pure 
Is the home of the spirit’s birth. 


HOBERT’S SECOND WIFE. 

FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.” 


Y OU speak of Hobert’s second wife, 

A lofty dame and bold : 

I like not her forbidding air, 

And forehead high and cold. 

The orphans have no cause for grief, 

She dare not give it now, 

Though nothing but a ghostly fear 
Her heart of pride could bow. 

One night the boy his mother called : 

They heard him weeping say— 

“ Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy’s cheek, 
And wipe his tears away! ” 

Red grew the lady’s brow with rage, 

And yet she feels a strife 
Of anger and of terror too, 

At thought of that dead wife. 

Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue, 
The watch-dog howls with fear; 

Loud neighs the steed from out the stall: 

What form is gliding near ? 

No latch is raised, no step is heard, 

But a phantom fills the space— 

A sheeted spectre from the dead, 

With cold and leaden face! 


What boots it that no other eye 
Beheld the shade appear? 

The guilty lady’s guilty soul 
Beheld it plain and clear! 

It slowly glides within the room, 

And sadly looks around— 

And stooping, kissed her daughter’s cheek 
With lips that gave no sound! 

Then softly on the stepdame’s arm 
She laid a death-cold hand, 

Yet it hath scorched within the flesh 
Like to a burning brand ; 

And gliding on with noiseless foot, 

O’er winding stair and hall, 

She nears the chamber where is heard 
Her infant’s trembling call. 

She smoothed the pillow where he lay, 

She warmly tucked the bed, 

She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls 
That clustered round his head. 

The child, caressed, unknowing fear, 

Hath nestled him to rest; 

The mother folds her wings beside— 

The mother from the blest! 





Lucy Larcom. 

“Poetess of the Lowell Mills.” 


UDE noise of spindles mingled with the notes of her lyre, but 
the notes of her lyre were quite as sweet and entrancing as if 
strangers to the clatter of unpoetical machinery. She says: 
“ I entered the spinning-room, then the dressing-room, where I 
had a place beside pleasant windows looking toward the river. 
Later I was promoted to the clotli-room, where I had fewer 
hours of confinement, without the noisy machinery, and it was altogether 
neater.” # 

Lucy Larcom, child of poverty and poesy, went into the cotton 
factory to help support her family. The operatives published a little 
paper entitled, “ Offering.” From being a contributor to this modest 
sheet, she rose to the position of contributor to the “ Atlantic Monthly,” 
and finally, after becoming educated and teaching in the leading schools 
of Massachusetts, she published several works of literary merit. 

These are: “ Ships in the Mist and Other Stories ; ” “ Breathings 

of a Better Life; ” “ An Idyl of Work; ” “ As It Is in Heaven,” and 
“ The Unseen Friend.” Miss Larcom was always the warm friend of 
the working girl. She was born in Beverly, Mass., in 1826, and died in 
April, 1893. 



A STRIP OF BLUE. 


I DO not own an inch of land, 

But all I see is mine — 

The orchard and the mowing-fields, 
The lawn and gardens fine. 

The wind my tax-collectors are, 

They bring me tithes divine— 

Wild scenes and subtle essences, 

A tribute rare and free; 

And more magnificent than all, 

My window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue immensity— 

A little strip of sea. 

316 


Richer am I than he who owns 
Great fleets and argosies ; 

I have a share in every ship 
Won by the inland breeze 
To loiter 011 yon airy road 
Above the apple-trees. 

I freight them with my untold dreams, 
Each bears my own picked crew ; 
And nobler cargoes wait for them 
Than ever India knew— 

My ships that sail into the East 
Across that outlet blue. 







LUCY LARCOM. 


317 


Sometimes they seem like living shapes— 
The people of the sky— 

Guests in white raiment coming down 
From Heaven, which is close by : 

I call them by familiar names, 

As one by one draws nigh, 

So white, so light, so spirit-like, 

From violet mists they bloom ! 

The aching wastes of the unknown 
Are half reclaimed from gloom, 

Since on life’s hospitable sea 
All souls find sailing-room. 


Here sit I, as a little child : 

The threshold of God’s door 
Is that clear band of chrysoprase, 
Now the vast temple floor, 

The binding glory of the dome 
I bow my head before : 

The universe, O God, is home, 

In height or depth to me ; 

Yet here upon thy footstool green 
Content am I to be; 

Glad when is opened to my need 
Some sea-like glimpse of thee. 


HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 


P OOR lone Hannah, 

Sitting at the window binding shoes, 
Faded, wrinkled, 

Sitting, stitching in a mournful muse, 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she, 

When the bloom was on the tree; 
Spring and winter 

Hannah’s at the window binding shoes. 
Not a neighbor 

Passing nod or answer will refuse 
To her whisper, 

“ Is there from the fishers any news?” 

Oh her heart’s adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone! 

Night and morning 

Hannah’s at the window binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos ; 

Hale and clever, 

For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow, 

And the waves are laughing so! 

For her wedding 

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 


May is passing; 

Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes. 
Hannah shudders, 

For the mild southwester mischief brews, 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound a schooner sped : 

Silent, lonesome, 

Hannah’s at the window binding shoes. 

’ Tis November: 

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews; 

From Newfoundland, 

Not a sail returning will she lose. 
Whispering hoarsely," Fishermen, 

Have you, have you heard of Ben ? ” 

Old with watching, 

Hannah’s at the window binding shoes. 
Twenty winters 

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views; 
Twenty seasons— 

Never one has brought her any news. 

Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o’er the seas: 
Hopeless, faithless, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 






William Wirt. 

Virginia’s Brilliant Orator. 

ILLIAM WIRT was the youngest son of an emigrant from 
Switzerland, and was born in Bladensburg, Maryland, on the 
eighth of November, 1772. His father died while he was an 
infant, and his mother before he was eight years old. He 
then became the ward of an uncle, who placed him at a 
grammar school. He began the study of the law, and in 
1792 was licensed to practice, and commenced his professional career at 
Culpepper Court House in Virginia. 

He was now twenty-one years of age, with good health, a handsome 
person, pleasing address, and great fluency in conversation and in debate. 
In the winter of 1807 he was retained under the direction of President 
Jefferson to assist the Attorney-General of the United States in the cele¬ 
brated prosecution of Aaron Burr for treason. The great Marshall 
presided, and the first lawyers of the country were engaged for or against 
the prisoner. The question was argued in a manner worthy of its 
importance. “A degree of eloquence seldom displayed on any occasion,” 
said the chief justice, “ has embellished solidity of argument and depth 
of research.” 

It is generally admitted that the speech of Mr. Wirt was altogether 
the most brilliant and effective made during the trial. He was master of 
all the arts by which the attention is secured and retained. Oratory was 
his forte as well as his favorite art. Every period, every gesture, every 
look, was carefully studied. His principal speech occupied four hours, 
and was faithfully reported, probably by himself. The occasion was 
fortunate ; he exerted his best powers ; and made his reputation national. 
As everybody knows, Burr was acquitted. Luther Martin’s remark, that 
the trial was “ much ado about nothing,” is now admitted to have been 
as just as it was happy. There was on the one side of the prosecution 
little opportunity for reasoning, and certainly Mr. Wirt exhibited no 
great ability in that way; but his speech served his own purposes, and 
helped to secure the proceeding from immediate contempt. 

318 




WILLIAM WIRT. 


319 


In 1808 lie was elected to represent the city of Richmond in the 
House of Delegates, and he acquired new distinction by his labors in that 
body; but though often invited to do so he would never after leave the 
path of his profession. He wrote, indeed, in support of Mr. Jefferson’s 
administration, and in favor of the nomination of Mr. Madison for the 
Presidency; but except when influenced by private friendship he had as 
little as possible to do with party politics. 

Mr. Wirt was appointed by President Madison in 1816 Attorney for 
the district of Virginia, and on the election of Mr. Monroe to the Presidency, 
in the following year, he was made Attorney General of the United States. 
He now removed to Washington, where he resided until 1830, when, at 
the close of the administration of Mr. Adams, he resigned his office, and 
took up his residence in Baltimore, where he passed the remainder of his 
life. He died on the eighteenth of February, 1834, in the sixty-second 
year of his age. 

Mr. Wirt’s literary writings are a “ Life of Patrick Henry; ” 
“ Eulogy on the Lives and Characters of Adams and Jefferson; ” A Dis¬ 
course before the Societies of Rutgers’ College, in 1830; and an Address 
delivered in Baltimore, in the same year, on the “ Triumph of Liberty 
in France.” 


WHO IS BLANNERHASSETT ? 

FROM A SPEECH AT THE TRIAL OF AARON BURR. 


W HO is Blannerhassett ? A native of 
Ireland, a man of letters, who fled 
from the storms of his own country 
to find quiet in ours. His history shows that 
war is not the natural element of his mind. 
If it had been, he never would have ex¬ 
changed Ireland for America. So far is an 
army from furnishing the society natural and 
proper to Mr. Blannerhassett’s character, that 
on his arrival in America he retired even 
from the population of the Atlantic States, 
and sought quiet and solitude in the bosom of 
our western forests. 

But he carried with him taste, and science, 
and wealth ; and lo, the desert smiled! Pos¬ 
sessing himself of a beautiful island in the 
Ohio, he rears upon it a palace, and decorates 
it with every romantic embellishment of 
fancy. A shrubbery, that Shenstone might 
have envied, blooms around him. Music, 


that might have charmed Calypso and her 
nymphs, is his. An extensive library spreads 
its treasures before him. A philosophical ap¬ 
paratus offers to him all the secret mysteries 
of nature. Peace, tranquillity, and innocence 
shed their mingled delights around him. And 
to crown the enchantment of the scene, a wife, 
who is said to be lovely even beyond her sex, 
and graced with every accomplishment that 
can render it irresistible, had blessed him 
with her love and made him the father of 
several children. 

The evidence would convince you that this 
is but a faint picture of the real life. In the 
midst of all this peace, this innocent sim¬ 
plicity, and this tranquillity, this feast of the 
mind, this pure banquet of the heart, the de¬ 
stroyer comes ; he comes to change this para¬ 
dise into hell. Yet the flowers do not wither 
at his approach. No monitory shuddering 




320 


WILLIAM WIRT. 


through the bosom of their unfortunate pos¬ 
sessor warns him of the ruin that is com¬ 
ing upon him. A stranger presents him¬ 
self. Introduced to their civilities by the 
rank which he had lately held in his country, 
he soon finds his way to their hearts by the 
dignity and elegance of his demeanor, the 
light and beauty of his conversation, and the 
seductive and fascinating power of his address- 
The conquest was not difficult. Innocence is 
ever simple and credulous. Conscious of no 
design itself, it suspects none in others. It 
wears no guard before its breast. Lvery 
door and portal and avenue of the heart is 
thrown open, and all who choose it enter. 

Such was the state of Eden when the ser¬ 
pent entered its bowers. The prisoner, in a 
more engaging form, winding himself into 
the open and uupracticed heart of the unforu- 
nate Blanuerhassett, found but little difficulty 
in changing the native character of that heart 
and the° objects of its affection. By degrees 
he infuses into it the poison of his own am¬ 
bition. He breathes into it the fire of his 
own courage; a daring and desperate thirst 
for glory ; and ardor panting for great enter¬ 
prises, for all the storm and bustle and hurri¬ 
cane of life. In a short time the whole man 
is changed, and every object of his former 
delights is relinquished. No more he enjoys 
the tranquil scene ; it has become flat and 
insipid to his taste. 

His books are abandoned. His retort and 
crucible are thrown aside. His shrubbery 
blooms and breathes its fragrance upon the 
air in vain; he likes it not. His ear no longer 
drinks the rich melody of music; it longs for 
the trumpet’s clangor and the cannon’s roar. 
Even the prattle of his babes, once so sweet, 
no longer affects him; and the angel smile of 


his wife, which hitherto touched his bosom 
with ecstasy so unspeakable, is now unseen and 
unfelt. Greater objects have taken possession 
of his soul. His imagination has been dazzled 
by visions of diadems, of stars and garters, 
and titles of nobility. He has been taught 
to burn with restless emulation at the names 
of great heroes and conquerors. His en¬ 
chanted island is destined soon to relapse into 
a wilderness; and in a few months we find 
the beautiful and tender partner of his bosom, 
whom he lately “ permitted not the winds of” 
summer “ to visit too roughly,” we find her 
shivering at midnight on the winter banks of 
the Ohio and mingling her tears with the tor¬ 
rents that froze as they fell. 

Yet this unfortunate man, thus deluded from 
his interest and his happiness, thus seduced 
from the paths of innocence and peace, thus 
confounded in the toils that were deliberately 
spread for him, and overwhelmed by tho mas¬ 
tering spirit and genius of another—this man, 
thus ruined and undone, and made to play a 
subordinate part in this grand drama of guilt 
and treason, this man is to be called the prin¬ 
cipal offender, while he by whom he was thus 
plunged in misery is comparatively innocent, 
a mere accessory! Is this reason ? Is it law ? 
Is it humanity ? 

Sir, neither the human heart nor the human 
understanding will bear a perversion so mon¬ 
strous and absurd! so shocking to the soul! 
so revolting to reason! Let Aaron Burr, then, 
not shrink from the high destination which he 
has courted, and having already ruined Blan- 
nerhassett in fortune, character, and happiness 
for ever, let him not attempt to finish the 
tragedy by thrusting that ill-fated man be¬ 
tween himself and punishment. 






Fisher Ames. 

Orator of the First Federal Congress. 


ISHER AMES was regarded by many of bis contemporaries as 
one of the greatest men wbo had lived in this country. He 
was the leader of the Federal party in the House of Represen¬ 
tatives during the administration of Washington, and was 
applauded for his eloquence and learning, the solidity of his 
judgment, and the unsullied purity of his public and private 
conduct. As an orator he was without a rival. 

He was born in Dedham, Massachusetts, on the ninth of April, 1758; 
entered Harvard College when twelve years of age; took his degree at 
sixteen ; and in 1781 commenced the practice of law. The ability he had 
manifested in occasional public speeches, and in various political contri¬ 
butions to the gazettes, in 1788 procured him an election to the Massa¬ 
chusetts convention for ratifying the Federal Constitution; he was soon 
after made a member of the State Legislature; and the people of Boston 
chose him to be their first representative in the Congress of the United 
States. 

His most celebrated speech in this body was delivered on the twenty- 
ninth day of April, 1796, in support of the Treaty with Great Britain, 
which a considerable party was anxious to repudiate, although it had 
been approved by the Executive. He was so feeble, from a severe and 
protracted illness, when he arose, that it seemed doubtful whether he 
would be able to do more than enter a protest against the proposed viola¬ 
tion of public faith ; but as he proceeded he acquired a factitious strength 
from his enthusiasm, and when he sat down, with an allusion to his 
“ slender and almost broken hold upon life,” the effect which had been 
produced was so great that a postponement of the consideration of the 
subject was moved on the part of the opposition, lest the House should 
act under the influence of feelings which would be condemned by their 
judgment. This and his speech on Mr. Madison’s resolutions, are the 
only ones of which we have reports, though he was not an unfrequent 

debater. 

21 



321 



322 


FISHER AMES. 


After a service of eight years in Congress, on the retirement of 
Washington he also quitted public life. He resided on his farm in 
Dedham, occasionally appearing in the courts, and devoting his leisure 
to correspondence, and the composition of political essays, which, though 
published anonymously, had a powerful influence upon public opinion. 
In 1804 he was elected President of Harvard College, but on account of 
ill health declined the office. His debility continued gradually to increase 
until the fourth of July, 1808, when he died. 


GREAT MEN THE GLORY OF THEIR COUNTRY. 

FROM A SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER OF ALEXANDER HAMILTON. 


T HE most substantial glory of a country is 
its virtuous great men: its prosperity 
will depend on its docility to learn from 
their example. That nation is fated to 
ignominy and servitude, for which such men 
have lived in vain. Power may be seized by 
a nation, that is yet barbarous; and wealth 
may be enjoyed by onejthat it finds, or rendeis 
sordid: the one is the gift or snort of accident, 


and the other is the sport of power. Both 
are mutable, and have passed away without 
leaving behind them any other memorial than 
ruins that offend taste, and traditions that 
baffle conjecture. But the glory of Greece is 
imperishable, or will last as long as learning 
itself, which is its monument: it strikes an 
everlasting root, and leaves perennial blossoms 
on its grave. 


THE INFAMY OF VIOLATING TREATIES. 


W E are either to execute this treaty, or 
break our faith. To expatiate on the 
value of public faith may pass with 
some men for declamation: to such men I 
have nothing to say. 

What is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affec¬ 
tion for a spot where a man was born ? Are 
the very clods where we tread entitled to this 
ardent preference, because they are greener ? 
No, sir; this is not the character of the virtue. 
It soars higher for its object. It is an ex¬ 
tended self-love, mingling with all the enjoy¬ 
ments of life, and twisting itself with the 
minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus we 
obey the laws of society, because they are the 
laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not 
the array of force and terror, but the venerable 
image of our country’s honor. Every good 
citizen makes that honor his own, and cherishes 
it, not only as precious, but as sacred. He is 
willing to risk his life in its defence, and is 


conscious that he gains protection while he 
gives it. 

What rights of a citizen will be deemed in¬ 
violable, when a State renounces the principles 
that constitute their security ? Or, if his life 
should not be invaded, what would its enjoy¬ 
ments be, in a country odious in the eye of 
strangers, and dishonored in his own ? Could 
he look with affection and veneration to such 
a country, as his parent ? The sense of having 
one would die within him; he would blush 
for his patriotism, if he retained any,—and 
justly, for it would be a vice. He would be a 
banished man in his native land. 

On this theme, my emotions are unutter¬ 
able. If I could find words for them, if my 
powers bore any proportion to my zeal, I 
would swell my voice to such a note of remon¬ 
strance, it should reach every log house beyond 
the mountains. I would say to the inhabi¬ 
tants, wake from your false security; your 






FISHER AMES. 


323 


cruel dangers, your more cruel apprehensions 
are soon to be renewed ; the wounds, yet 
unhealed, are to be torn open again; in the 
day time, your path through the woods will 
be ambushed ; the darkness of night will 
glitter with the blaze of your dwellings. You 

PUBLIC HONOR 

HERE is no mistake in this case : there 
can be none: experience has already 
been the prophet of events, and the 
cries of our future victims have already 
reached us. The western inhabitants are not 
a silent and uncomplaining sacrifice. The 
voice of humanity issues from the shade of the 
wilderness: it exclaims, that, while one hand 
is held up to reject this treaty, the other grasps 
a tomahawk. It summons our imagination 
to the scenes that will open it and requires no 
great effort of the imagination to conceive that 
events so near are already begun. I can fancy 
that I listen to the yells of savage vengeance 
and the shrieks of torture: already they seem 
to sigh in the western wind: already they 
mingle with every echo from the mountains. 

Let me cheer the mind, weary and ready to 
despond on this prospect, by presenting 
another which it is yet in our power to realize. 
Is it possible for a real American to look at 
the prosperity of this country, without some 
desire for its continuance, without some re¬ 
spect for the measures which many will say 
produced, and all will confess have preserved 
it? Will he not feel some dread, that a 
change of system will reverse the scene ? 

The well grounded fears of our citizens, in 
1794, were removed by the treaty, but are not 
forgotten. Then they deemed war nearly in¬ 
evitable, and would not this adjustment have 
been considered at that day as a happy escape 
from the calamity ? The great interest and 
the general desire of our people was to enjoy 
the advantages of neutrality. This instru¬ 
ment, however misrepresented, affords America 
that inestimable security. The causes of our 
disputes are either cut up by the roots, or re¬ 
ferred to a new negotiation, after the end of 
the European war. 

For, when the fiery vapors of the war low- 


are a father—the blood of your sons shall 
fatten your cornfield : you are a mother—the 
warwhoop shall wake the sleep of the cradle. 

On this subject ye need not suspect any 
deception on your feelings: it is a spectacle of 
horror, which cannot be overdrawn. 


AND FIDELITY. 

ered in the skirts of our horizon, all our 
wishes were concentrated in this one, that we 
might escape the desolation of the storm. This 
treaty, like a rainbow on the edge of the cloud, 
marked to our eyes the space where it was 
raging, and afforded at the same time the sure 
prognostic of fair weather. If we reject it, 
the vivid colors will grow pale, it will be a 
baleful meteor portending tempest and war. 

I rose to speak under impressions that I 
would have resisted if I could. Those who 
see me will believe, that the reduced state of 
my health has unfitted me, almost equally, 
for much exertion of body or mind. Un¬ 
prepared for debate by careful reflection in 
my retirement, or by long attention here, I 
thought the resolution I had taken, to sit 
silent, was imposed by necessity, and would 
cost me no effort to maintain. With a mind 
thus vacant of ideas, and sinking, as I really 
am, under a sense of weakness, I imagined 
the very desire of speaking was extinguished 
by the persuasion that I had nothing to say. 

Yet when I come to the moment of decid¬ 
ing the vote, I start back with dread from the 
edge of the pit into which we are plunging. 
In my view, even the minutes I have spent in 
expostulation have their value, because they 
protect the crisis, and the short period in 
which alone we may resolve to escape it. 

I have thus been led by my feelings to speak 
more at length than I had intended. Yet I 
have perhaps as little personal interest in the 
event as any one here. There is, I believe, 
no member, who will not think his chance to 
be a witness of the consequence greater than 
mine. If the vote should pass to reject, and 
a spirit should rise to make “ confusion worse 
confounded,” even I, slender and almost 
broken as my hold upon life is, may outlive the 
government and constitution of my country. 






Robert Young Hayne. 

The Cicero of South Carolina. 



kAMOUS for his great debate with Daniel Webster in the Senate 
of the United States, and as a master of sarcasm, invective 
and persuasive eloquence, Mr. Hayne stands out prominently 
iu the history of the long struggle that finally culminated in 
our Civil War. His speeches and orations rank with the best 
productions of their kind. For a long time he was the pride 
of his State, wielded a vast influence over the public mind, and both at 
the bar and in Congress showed himself to be a formidable champion of 


whatever cause he advocated. 

Mr. Hayne was born in the parish of Saint Paul, South Carolina, in 
1791, and died in 1840. He became eminent as a lawyer, and in 1818 
was chosen Speaker of the State Legislature. He represented South 
Carolina in the National Senate from 1823 to 1832. In 1830 he made his 
memorable reply to Webster. He was an advocate of nullification. 


ON MR. WEBSTER’S DEFENCE OF NEW ENGLAND. 


T HE honorable gentleman from Massa¬ 
chusetts, after deliberating a whole 
night upon his course, comes into this 
chamber to vindicate New England; and, 
instead of making up his issue with the 
gentleman from Missouri, on the charges 
which he had preferred, chooses to consider 
me as the author of those charges; and, 
losing sight entirely of that gentleman, 
selects me as his adversary, and pours out 
all the vials of his mighty wrath upon my 
devoted head. Nor is he willing to stop there. 
He goes on to assail the institutions and policy 
of the South, and calls in question the princi¬ 
ples and conduct of the state which I have 
the honor to represent. 

When I find a gentleman of mature age 
and experience, of acknowledged talents and 
324 


profound sagacity, pursuing a course like this, 
declining the contest offered him from the j 
West, and make war upon the unoffending i 
South, I must believe—I am bound to believe ; 
—he has some object in view which he has 
not ventured to disclose. Mr. President, why 
is this? Has the gentleman discovered, in 1 
former controversies with the gentleman from I 
Missouri, that he is overmatched by that » 
Senator? And does he hope for an easy 1 
victory over a more feeble adversary? Has 
the gentleman’s distempered fancy been dis- '■} 
turbed by gloomy forebodings of “new 
alliances to be formed,” at which he hinted ? 
Has the ghost of the murdered Coalition 
come back, like the ghost of Banquo, to 
“sear the eyeballs of the gentleman,” and 
will it not “down at his bidding?” Are 





ROBERT YOUNG HAYNE- 


325 


dark visions of broken hopes, and honors 
lost for ever, still floating before his heated 
imagination ? 

Sir, if it be his object to thrust me between 
the gentleman from Missouri and himself, in 
order to rescue the East from the contest it 
has provoked with the West, he shall not be 
gratified. I will not be dragged into the de¬ 
fence of my friend from Missouri. The South 
shall not be forced into a conflict not its own. 


The gentleman from Missouri is able to fight 
his own battles. The gallant West needs no 
aid from the South to repel any attack which 
may be made on them from any quarter. 
Let the gentleman from Massachusetts con¬ 
trovert the facts and arguments of the gentle¬ 
man from Missouri, if he can; and, if he win 
the victory, let him wear the honors. I shall 
not deprive him of his laurels, or disparage 
his achievements. 


SOUTH CAROLINA IN THE REVOLUTION. 


I F there be one state in the Union, Mr. 
President (and I say it not in a boastful 
spirit), that may challenge comparison 
with any other, for an uniform, zealous, 
ardent, and uncalculating devotion to the 
Union, that State is South Carolina. Sir, 
from the very commencement of the Revolu¬ 
tion, up to this hour, there is no sacrifice, 
however great, she has not cheerfully made — 
no service she has ever hesitated to perform. 
She has adhered to you in your prosperity ; 
but in your adversity she has clung to you 
with more than filial affection. 

No matter what was the condition of her 
domestic affairs—though deprived of her re¬ 
sources, divided by parties, or surrounded 
with difficulties—the call of the country has 
been to her as the voice of God. Domestic 
discord ceased at the sound; every man be¬ 
came at once reconciled to his brethren, and 
the sons of Carolina were all seen crowding 
together to the temple, bringing their gifts to 
the altar of their common country. 

What, sir, was the conduct of the South 
during the Revolution? Sir, I honor New 
England for her conduct in that glorious 
struggle. But, great as is the praise which 
belongs to her, I think at least equal honor is 
due to the South. They espoused the quarrel 
of their brethren with a generous zeal, which 
did not suffer them to stop to calculate their 


interest in the dispute. Favorites of the 
mother country, possessed of neither ships 
nor seamen to create a commercial rivalship 
they might have found in their situation a 
guarantee that their trade would be for ever 
fostered and protected by Great Britain. 

But, trampling on all considerations either 
of interest or safety, they rushed into the 
conflict, and, fighting for principle, perilled 
all, in the sacred cause of freedom. Never 
was there exhibited, in the history of the 
world, higher examples of noble daring, dread¬ 
ful suffering, and heroic endurance, than by 
the Whigs of Carolina during the Revolution. 
The whole state, from the mountains to the 
sea, was overrun by an overwhelming force of 
the enemy. The fruits of industry perished 
on the spot where they were produced, or were 
consumed by the foe. 

The “plains of Carolina” drank up the 
most precious blood of her citizens. Black 
and smoking ruins marked the places which 
had been the habitations of her children ! 
Driven from their homes into the gloomy and 
almost impenetrable swamps, even there the 
spirit of liberty survived; and South Caro¬ 
lina, sustained by the example of herSumters 
and her Marions, proved, by her conduct, that 
though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of 
her people was invincible. 





Louise Chandler Moulton 

Poet and Novelist. 


MOULTON’S reputation is not of the fitful, fictitious variety, 
it rests on solid merit. Whether she writes her delightful 
.les for the little people, or addresses herself to adults of cul- 
ire and critical taste, she meets every requirement and easily 
ins the love and admiration of her readers. 

Of engaging personality, pleasing manners, and always 
conveying the impression of that refinement which belongs to the true 
lady, she is one of the central attractions of every literary circle of which 
she forms a part. Her writings include poems, essays, newspaper corres¬ 
pondence and fiction, all of which are instructive and entertaining. Her 
aim is always high and she never writes when she has nothing to say. 

Mrs. Moulton’s maiden name was Louise Chandler. Her birthplace 
was Pomfret, Conn., and the date of her birth is April 5, 1835. She 
received the ordinary education given to a New England country girl. 
From a very early age she showed her literary tendencies, and when only 
nineteen years old published a volume of poems entitled, “ This, That 
and the Other,” which was well received and was really the beginning of 
her career as an author. Having spent a year after this at Miss Willard’s 
Seminary in Troy, she married a well-known Boston journalist, William 
Moulton. 

Her next effort as author was in the line of fiction, which was pub¬ 
lished anonymously under the title of “ Juno Clifford.” In 1859 appeared 
another volume from her pen, entitled “ My Third Book.” Up to this 
time her writings of fiction had not been remarkably successful, although 
exhibiting evidences of that superior talent which was afterward 
apparent in all her works. 

In 1855 Mrs. Moulton took up her residence in Boston, but subse¬ 
quently passed sixteen consecutive summers and autumns in Europe. In 
London she was widely and favorably known among authors and people 
of artistic and literary tastes. Her greatest success was with her 11 Bed¬ 
time Stories for Children,” which was published in 1873. She has a 

326 






LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 


327 


remarkable faculty of interesting young people and presenting to them 
high ideals of life, doing it in such a way as to charm the imagination. 
Five volumes of bright stories for children are among her writings. 

In 1881 Mrs. Moulton issued a book entitled “ Random Rambles,” 
and in 1887, “ Ours and Our Neighbors.” The latter was a volume of 
essays on social problems and was followed by two volumes of poems. 
Her most popular work is entitled “ In the Garden of Dreams,’’ issued 
in 1889 simultaneously in England and America, the popularity of which 
has been remarkable, and long sustained. 


THE LATE SPRING. 


S HE stood alone amidst the April fields— 
Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. 
“ The spring is late,” she said, “ the faith¬ 
less spring, [fair. 

That should have come to make the meadows 

“ Their sweet South left too soon, among the 
trees 

The birds bewildered, flutter to and fro; 
For them no green boughs wait—their memories 
Of last year’s April had deceived them so.” 


She watched the homeless birds, the slow, sad 
spring, 

The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees, 
“ Thus God has dealt with me, his child,” she 
said: [these. 

“ I wait my spring-time, and am cold like 
“ To them will come the fullness of their time; 

Their spring, though late, will make the 
meadows fair; 

Shall I,who wait like them, like them be blessed ? 

I am His own—doth not my Father care?” 


THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. 


I T stands in a sunny meadow, 

The house so mossy and brown, 

With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, 
And the gray roof sloping down. 

The trees fold their green arms around it,— 
The trees a century old; 

And the winds go chanting through them, 
And the sunbeams drop their gold. 

The cowslips spring in the marshes, 

The roses bloom on the hill. 

And beside the brook in the pasture 
The herds go feeding at will. 

Within, in the wide old kitchen, 

The old folks sit in the sun, 

That creeps through the sheltering woodbine, 
Till the day is almost done. 


Their children have gone and left them: 
They sit in the sun alone! 

And the old wife’s ears are failing 
As she harks to the well-known tone 

That won her heart in her girlhood, 
That has soothed her in many a care, 

And praises her now for the brightness 
Her old face used to wear. 

She thinks again of her bridal,— 

How, dressed in her robe of white, 

She stood by her gay young lover 
In the morning’s rosy light. 

O, the morning is rosy as ever, 

But the rose from her cheek is fled; 

And the sunshine still is golden, 

But it falls on a silvered head. 






328 


LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 


And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, 
Come back in her winter-time, 

Till her feeble pulses tremble 

With the thrill of spring-time’s prime. 

And looking forth from the window, 

She thinks how the trees have grown 
Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, 

She crossed the old door-stone. 


Though dimmed her eyes’ bright azure, 
And dimmed her hair’s young gold, 
The love in her girlhood plighted 
Has never grown dim or old. 

They sat in peace in the sunshine 
Till the day was almost done, 

And then, at its close, an angel 
Stole over the threshold stone 


THE OLD HOME. 


’M standing by the window-sill, 
Where we have stood of yore; 
The sycamore is waving still 
Its branches near the door; 

An d near me creeps the wild rose-vine 
On which our wreaths were hung— 
Still round the porch its tendrils twine. 
As when we both were young. 

The little path that used to lead 
Down by the river shore 
Is overgrown with brier and weed— 
Not level as before. 


But there’s no change upon the hill, 

From whence our voices rung— 

The violets deck the summit still, 

As when we both were young. 

And yonder is the old oak-tree, 

Beneath whose spreading shade, 

When our young hearts were light and free, 
In innocence we played ; 

And over there the meadow gate 
On which our playmates swung. 

Still standing in its rustic state, 

As when we both were yonng. 


ROBERT EASTMAN. 

FROM “MY THIRD BOOK.” 


«■ TJ E was the noblest man I ever knew, 
j~"1 this Robert Eastman. In his place, 
how many would have pursued me, 
all my life through, with vengeful hate; but 
to him the love which Caroline had borne 
me rendered me sacred. Caroline had under¬ 
stood him well. He had loved her deeply ; 
he had mourned for her truly. Had he been, 
as I was, the beloved of her soul, he would 
have consecrated all his life to her memory. 

“ But he knew that she had never loved 
him ; that, in the most sacred sense, she had 
never been his wife; and, after a few years, 
he married again, this time a pale, blonde 
beauty; a gentle, quiet woman, very unlike 
Caroline. They were happy. They have 
passed fifteen years of their life together. It 
has been like a perfect day, growing brighter 
toward the afternoon. I think it is one of 
those heaven-made marriages which death 
only makes eternal. 


“ For myself, after the first shock was over, 
I think Caroline’s death was almost a com¬ 
fort to me. She had never seemed so truly 
mine as when I stood beside her grave. I am 
technically no spiritualist. I do not believe 
in physical demonstrations; I have had none 
of her presence; and yet I know that 
many a midnight she has watched over my 
slumbers, that her free soul walks through 
life at my side. I believe, as truly as I be¬ 
lieve in heaven, that she will be mine here¬ 
after ; that, when the messenger comes for me 
who comes for all, she will guide me across 
the tideless, fathomless waters, and be mine 
on the other side; mine in all the changeless 
radience of her beauty, the glory of her im¬ 
mortal love, and her immortal youth. I shall 
be young again there” 

I looked at him as he ceased speaking. A 
great light, as of a mighty hope, sat on hi? 
face. 









Edward Everett Hale. 

Author and Educator. 



R. HALE was born in Boston, Mass., April 3, 1822. He grad¬ 
uated at Harvard College in 1839, entered tbe ministry and 
was pastor of a Unitarian Church in Worcester, Mass., from 
1846 to 1856, when he left Worcester and took a pastoral 
charge in Boston. Early in his life he became known as a 
vigorous, attractive writer and lecturer. He made choice of 
subjects of an educational character, his aim being not only to please and 
entertain, but to instruct his readers and hearers. 

His aim in all his writings is well expressed by a motto in one of 
his most popular books, “ Ten Times One is Ten,” in which he says, “ Look 
up and not down ! Look forward and not backward ! Look out and not 
in! Lend a hand! ” 

Among his very numerous works, mostly ingenious tales, written 
with strongly marked moral aims, are “ The Rosary,” published in 1848 ; 
“The Man Without a Country,” 1861; “Ingham Papers,” 1870; “Ten 
Times One Is Ten,” 1870; “Philip Nolan’s Friends,” 1876. 

After serving his Church in Boston more than thirty years and 
achieving a distinction that might well be the envy of any clergyman or 
author, Mr. Hale devoted most of his time to literary work. During his 
long career he has written for many periodicals, some of which are no 
longer in existence. His genius shines especially in his short stories ; 
in this department of fiction he is considered incomparable. Striking 
situations, ingenious plots, quaint characters, and an original style of 
expression, place him as an author in a class by himself. Thus he has 
gained for himself the title of “ The Robinson Crusoe of America.” 

Mr. Hale has been much sought as a lecturer before Chautauqua 
circles, educational annexes, teachers’ institutes, etc. His genial person¬ 
ality, earnest spirit, and eloquent delivery add force and effect to his 
original and practical thoughts. As a historian he has written valuable 
papers on various topics. He is an eminent authority on all Spanish- 

American affairs. Mr. Hale’s love of country is most pronounced, and 

329 





330 


EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 


lie has long been foremost in every patriotic and philanthropic movement 
looking toward the welfare of the people, without regard to section or 
locality. He exemplifies the scholar in public affairs. 


THEODORA BOURN AND JANE MARHILL. 

FROM “OUR CHRISTMAS IN A PALACE.” 


C i /'"''OME out and walk, Mary ; we shall 
have full twenty minutes. The 
conductor says fifteen, and you may 
be sure we shall not start till two.” 

Mary was glad enough to join him. As 
she crowded by the stove and porter’s seat, at 
the end of the car, she proposed that he 
should ask little Black Ribbons to join them, 
and he did so. He went back to the place 
where Black Ribbons was sitting alone, 
touched his hat, and said, “ My wife is going 
to take a walk on the platform. Will you 
not join us ? ” 

They had exchanged civilities with Black 
Ribbons before, but she was shy. They were 
happy in the joy of their wedding journey. 
Her seat was “ three,” quite at the end of 
the Pullman, and theirs was “twenty-one to 
twenty-four,” quite at the other. Mary had 
offered her cold coffee at lunch and she had 
declined. The walk, therefore, was the first 
successful effort at anything like intimacy. 

“ Look there,” said Hector, and he kicked 
with his foot an ingot of silver which lay as 
heavy and motionless under the blow as if it 
had been spiked to the plank on which they 
stood. “If we were dishonest, we could 
hardly get that off—all three of us. And 
now the expressmen leave these three blocks, 
trusting not in our honesty, not in law or 
sheriff, not in any All-Seeing Eye, but simply 
in the dead weight of silver. That is the way 
of the world.” 

“ The way of what world ? ” 

“ The way of this world. What I mean is 
that heavy people and things—people with 
much specific gravity—are let alone and pros¬ 
per, as if dead weight were a merit, while 
light and airy people like us three, and elegant 
things like that silver when it shall have been 


drawn into threads, and moulded into butter¬ 
flies for breast-pins, have to be watched and 
tended and daintily lifted from place to place. 
Now, there is our Caesar Ganymede, the Pull¬ 
man porter, sadly looking upon you now, he 
is so afraid you will be left, Mary.” 

“ You would like to go as freight ?” said 
Mary. 

“ Not quite that. For then they would lay 
me on my back, and put two tea-chests on 
me, and a log of red-wood on them, and these 
ingots of silver on them, and lock the car 
door for ten days.” 

“ You would arrive breathless, like a mes¬ 
senger in a novel.” 

“ Yes, and my clothes would need brushing. 
But we might all three have been sent, not as 
freight, but as parcels, by Adams’ Express. 
We could have been tied up in brown paper, 
like dolls. They could have marked us, 
‘This side up with care.’ We should go by 
‘ great speed ’ as they say in France. We 
should not have to pay a cabman when we 
arrived in Columbus, and we should have to 
spend at the theatre, all the money these 
blessed through tickets have cost us.” 

“ Minus what we paid the expressman.” 

“ No, madam. For that we have provided 
independently. For the hard-earned specie 
which I gave to yonder bloated conductor for 
our Pullman section, and which our friend 
here has paid for hers, would more than satisfy 
the greed of the express company. I am tall 
but thin. I should not measure more than 
six cubic feet. I should first tie up both you 
ladies back to back, and you would not 
together measure more than eight feet. It is 
not too late now. I will go and speak to the 
express agent.” 





Robert Jones Burdette. 

Celebrated Humorist. 


HK whole country came to know “ The Burlington Hawkeye 
Man,” and his humorous paragraphs, playful sallies and keen 
thrusts at “ stuff and nonsense ” were widely read and enjoyed. 
The genius of wit must be a possession of Mr. Burdette, since 
his career as a humorous writer has far outlived that of ordi¬ 
nary writers in the same line. 

He was born in Greensborough, Pa., July 30, 1844, but early in life 
removed to Peoria, Ill., where he was educated in the public schools. He 
enlisted as a private in the Forty-Seventh Illinois volunteers, in 1862, 
and served until the close of the war. In 1869 became one of the 
editors of the “ Peoria Transcript,” was afterward connected with the 
“ Review,” and still later assisted in the founding of a new paper in 
Peoria, which did not succeed. Subsequently he became associate editor 
of the “ Burlington Hawkeye,” and his humorous contributions to that 
journal, being widely copied, gave him a national reputation. In 1877 
he began to deliver public lectures, in which he was very successful, his 
subjects being “ The Rise and Fall of the Moustache,” “ Home,” and 
“ The Pilgrimage of the Funny Man.” 

Several volumes of his humorous writings have been issued. He 
was connected with the “ Brooklyn Bagle ” for some time, and continues 
to contribute much to periodical literature. He also occasionally preaches, 
being a licensed minister of the Baptist Church. 

Although the public have really no right to invade the sanctities of 
an author’s private life, yet so much of interest belongs to the domestic 
and home experiences of many well known writers as to render a certain 
amount of curiosity almost pardonable. Mr. Burdette has always taken 
his friends into close relations with himself, and no one could be more 
companionable or free from restraint and lofty airs. 

It is known that for years he was the tender, watchful guardian and 
helper of an invalid wife, whose frailty taxed his time and care, and 
enlisted all the sympathy of his true and generous nature. A consider- 

331 




332 


ROBERT JONES BURDETTE. 


able part of bis life was fashioned with reference to her comfort and wel¬ 
fare. Perhaps it is for this reason that the public have wondered how a 
man, who is essentially a humorist, should exhibit in some of his 
productions such deep and genuine pathos. 

And this element will help to account for the strong hold Mr. 
Burdette has had for so long a time upon the reading public. He has 
proved himself to be the master of both laughter and tears. 

Mr. Burdette’s published works include, “ The Rise and Fall of the 
Moustache and Other Hawkeytems,” issued in 1877; “ Hawkeyes,” 1880; 
“Life of William Penn,” 1882, a volume in the series of “ Comic Biogra¬ 
phies; ” and “ Innach Garden and Other Comic Sketches,” 1886. 

He has also been a contributor to various periodicals, such as the 
“ Ladies’ Home Journal,” the “ Wheelmen,” etc. He is a licensed 
preacher of the Baptist Church, and sometimes appears in the pulpits of 
the vicinity where he resides, which is Bryn Mawr, a short distance out 
of Philadelphia. 


SUNDAY TALK IN THE HORSE SHEDS. 

[OLD GRAY COMMENTS ON THE SERVICE TO HIS MATE.] 


? r ~pISN’T so much that the Sunday harness 
never seems to fit, 

That the collar is tight, and the check- 
rein draws on this queer new-fangled bit, 
Nor yet that the pasture looks greener, some¬ 
how, this sort of half-rest day, 

That galls me most, Old Roan, but the things 
I hear the people say. 

My shoulders ache, an’ my knees are stiff, an’ 
it makes me want to fight 
When I hear ’em sing, “ 0 Day of Rest! O 
Day of Joy an’ Light!” 

For we started late, an’ to get here soon we 
had to trot our best; 

“ Welcome ”—now hear ’em—“ delightful 
morn, sweet day of sacred rest! ” 

Now parson’s readin’ the Scripture, “ Remem¬ 
ber the Sabbath day— 

In it thou shalt not do any work ”—“Amen,” 
the people say; 

“ Thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy 
cattle, thy ox, nor thy ass ”— 

Don’t seem to exempt the horses, eh ? So 
we’ll let the lesson pass. 


Can’t you step over a little ? The sun comes 
in this side— 

An’ it don’t say a word about the wife; I 
reckon that’s why they decide 
That Sunday’s a day of rest on the farm from 
the labors of every-day life 
For everything that the Lord hath made— 
except the horses an’ wife. 

Now, that’s our hymn ; come, wake up, Roan, 
that means us, I’ll be bound— 

“ Awake, my soul ”—sing louder’n that; some 
folks sleep mighty sound— 

“ Awake, my soul, an’ with the sun ”—that’s 
meant for me and you— 

“ Thy daily course of duty run ”—well, that’s 
just what we do. 

“ A righteous man regardeth the life of his 
beast ”—I’d smile 

At the parson’s text, but if I did they’d hear 
me for a mile; 

For I trotted the last ten minutes lame—I’d 
picked up a hard, sharp stone, 

An’ could hear the old man growlin’ because 
his seat was “ hard as a bone.” 





ROBERT JONES BURDETTE- 


383 


“ Could I but climb where Moses stood ”—but 
the half of them wouldn’t climb ; 

They’d pile in the wagon full’s ’twould hold 
an’ ride up every time; 

If they had to walk they’d do’s they did when 
your pastern joint was sprained— 

They’d say ’twas too far, an’ stay at home, 
like they did the times it rained. 

I’m going to write a hymn’some day, an’ we’ll 
sing it out in the sheds— 

“Welcome, delightful morn that pours the 
rain upon our heads ; 

Welcome the slush, the snow that drifts, the 
mud that irritates, 

The storms that bring a Sabbath rest to the 
cattle within the gates.” 


His voice was hushed, for the notes of song 
rose on the hallowed air— 

“ Praise God from whom all blessings flow ”— 
thanksgiving, praise and prayer; 

“ Praise Him all creatures here below ”— 
man, beast, an’ bird an’ thing— 

With the possible exception of the farmer’s 
wife, who, having remained at home to 
prepare a dinner of chicken soup, roast 
beef, beets, onions, roasting ears, salad, 
pudding, two kinds of pie and fruit for 
her husband, three sons, four daughters 
the pastor, his wife and two children, the 
district secretary of the Home Mission 
Society, a distant relative from the city 
come out to spend the day, and two hired 
men, had very little time, and not much 
breath, and possibly not an everlastingly 
superabundant inclination to sing. 


ALONE. 

To appreciate “ Alone,” the reader should remember that Mr. Burdette is popular as a 
humorist. The sickness of his wife called him to her bedside for many long weeks—she 
finally died, and “ Alone ” expresses his loss. 


1 MISS you, my darling, my darling, 

The embers flurn low on the hearth ; 
And still is the stir of the household, 
And hushed is the voice of its mirth ; 

The rain splashes fast on the terrace, 

The wind past the lattices moan ; 

The midnight chimes out from the minster, 
And I am alone. 

I want you, my darling, my darling, 

I am tired with care and with fret; 

I would nestle in silence beside you, 

And all but your presence forget. 

In the hush of the happiness given, 

To those who through trusting have grown 
To the fullness of love in contentment, 
But I am alone. 


I call you, my darling, my darling, 

My voice echoes back on my heart: 

I stretch my arms to you in longing, 

And lo ! they fall empty apart, 

I whisper the sweet words you taught me. 

The words that we only have known, 

Till the blank of the dumb air is bitter, 

For I am alone. 

I need you, my darling, my darling, 

With its yearning my very heart aches; 
The load that divides us weighs harder, 

I shrink from the jar that it makes. 

Old sorrows rise up to beset me, 

Old doubts make my spirit their own, 

Oh, come through the darkness and save me; 
For I am alone. 





Hur.” 


Lew Wallace. 

Author of “ The Fair God ” and “ Ben 


does not require a multitude of books to give an author a 
reputation. Alexander Smith represents his hero as praying 
to be the author of one book—one book that should stir the 
world and the ages. That would be enough; and it must be 
admitted that one good book is more to be desired than a thou¬ 
sand poor ones. One oak is a grander product of nature than 
a million mushrooms. 

Nor is it essential that a man to be a successful author must begin 
his career early in life. Whenever this point is touched upon Sir Walter 
Scott is almost sure to be mentioned, whose grand achievements all came 
into the last half of his life. So Hawthorne might be named, whose 
“Scarlet Letter” gave him reputation at the age of forty-six, and unveiled 
a striking figure on the literary horizon. 

General Lew. Wallace had been known as a soldier and lawyer 
before, as Carlisle would say, he became “ a maker of books.’’ Especially 
was Mr. Wallace interested in the Mexican War, and his personal ser¬ 
vices were such as to predict for him a brilliant career as a soldier if 
opportunity should ever be offered. The opportunity came in connection 
with our Civil War, and Mr. Wallace rose to the position of Brigadier- 
General and then Major-General of volunteers. 

He was born in Brookville, Ind., April io, 1827, an< L after receiving 
a thorough education, studied law. During the Mexican War he entered 
the army as first lieutenant. Thereafter he practiced his profession at 
Covington and Crawfordsville until the beginning of the Civil War, when 
he was appointed Adjutant-General of Indiana, and became Colonel of 
volunteers. Subsequently he was commissioned Brigadier-General and 
then Major-General of volunteers. He was at the capture of Fort Don- 
elson and Shiloh, and in 1863 prevented the capture of Cincinnati by the 
Confederates. His troops were defeated at the battle of Monocacy July 
9, 1864, and he was removed from his command by General Halleck, but 
was reinstated by General Grant. 

334 






LEW WALLACE. 


335 


After the war General Wallace was Governor of Utah by Federal 
appointment from 1878 to 1881, and United States minister to Turkey 
from 1881 to 1885. After that time he devoted himself to the practice 
of law and to literature at his home in Crawfordsville. His publications 
are very popular and have had an enormous sale. They include “ The 
Fair God,” 1873; “Ben Hur: a tale of the Christ,” 1880; “The Boy¬ 
hood of Christ,” 1883, and “The Prince of India,” 1893, “Ben Hur” 
was dramatized in 1899 and has been successful on the stage. 


APPEARANCE OF CHRIST. 

FROM “BEN HUR.” 


T HE features, it should be further said, 
were ruled by a certain expression 
which, as the viewer chose, might with 
equal correctness have been called the effect 
of intelligence, love, pity or sorrow, though } 
in better speech, it was a blending of them all 
—a look easy to fancy as a mark of a sin¬ 
less soul doomed to the sight and understand¬ 
ing of the utter sinfulness of those among 
whom it was passing; yet withal no one could 


have observed the face with a thought of 
weakness in the man; so, at least, would not 
they who know that the qualities mentioned 
—love, sorrow, pity—are the results of a 
consciousness of strength to bear suffering 
oftener than strength to do; such has been 
the might of martyrs and devotees and the 
myriads written down in saintly calendars; 
and such, indeed, was the air of this one. 


THE ENTRY 

FROM “THE 

I T is hardly worth while to eulogize the 
Christians who took part in Cortez’ cru¬ 
sade. History has assumed their com¬ 
memoration. I may say, however, they were 
men who had acquired fitness for the task by 
service in almost every clime. Some had 
tilted with the Moor under the walls of 
Grenada; some had fought the Islamite on 
the Blue Danube; some had performed the 
first Atlantic voyage with Columbus; all of 
them had hunted the Carib in the glades of 
Hispaniola. It is not enough to describe 
them as fortune hunters, credulous, imagina¬ 
tive, tireless; neither is it enough to write 
them soldiers, bold, skillful, confident, cruel 
to enemies, gentle to each other. 

They were characters of the age in which 
they lived, unseen before, unseen since; 
knights errant, who believed in hippogriff and 


OF CORTEZ. 

FAIR GOD.” 

dragon, but sought them only in lands of 
gold; missionaries who complacently broke 
the body of the converted that Christ might 
the sooner receive his soul; palmers of pike 
and shield, who, in care of the Virgin, followed 
the morning round the world, assured that 
Heaven stooped lowest over the most profita¬ 
ble plantations. 

The wonders of the way from the coast to 
Iztapalapan had so beguiled the little host 
that they took but partial account of its dan¬ 
gers. When, this morning, they stepped 
upon the causeway and began to march out 
into the lake, a sense of insecurity fell upon 
them like the shadow of a cloud ; back to the 
land they looked, as to a friend from whom 
they might be parting forever; and as they 
proceeded and the waters spread around them, 
wider, deep, and upbearing denser multitudes 






336 


LEW WALLACE. 


of people, the enterprise suddenly grew in 
proportions and challenged their self-suffi¬ 
ciency ; yet, as I have heard them confess, 
they did not wake to a perfect comprehension 
of their situation and its dangers and difficul¬ 
ties, unless they passed the gates of Xoloc; 
then Tenochtitlan shone upon them—a city 
of enchantment. 

And then each one felt that to advance was 
like marching in the face of death, at the 
same time each one saw there was no hope ex¬ 
cept in advance. Every hand grasped closer 
the weapon with which it was armed, while 
the ranks were intuitively closed. What 


most impressed them, they said, was the silence 
of the people ; a word, a shout, a curse, or a 
battlecry would have been a relief from the 
fears and fancies that beset them ; as it was, 
though in the midst of myriad life, they heard 
only their own tramp, or the clang and rattle 
of their own arms. 

As if aware of the influence and fearful of 
its effect upon his weaker followers, Cortez 
spoke to the musicians, and trumpet and 
clarion burst into a strain which, with beat of 
drum and clash of cymbal, was heard in the 
city. 


DEATH OF MONTEZUMA. 

PROM “THE FAIR GOD.” 


T HE king turned his pale face and fixed 
his gazing eyes upon the conqueror; 
and such power was there in the look 
that the latter added, with softening manner, 
“ What I can do for thee I will do. I have 
always been thy true friend.” 

“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words 
make dying easy,” answered Montezuma, 
smilling faintly. 

With an effort he sought Cortez’ hand, and 
looking at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued: 

“Let me intrust these women and their 
children to you and your lord. Of all that 
which was mine but now is yours—lands, peo¬ 
ple, empire,—enough to save them from want 
and shame were small indeed. Promise me ; 
in the hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.” 

Taint of anger was there no longer on the 
soul of the great Spaniard. 

“ Rest thee, good king! ” he said, with feel¬ 
ing. “ Thy queens and their children shall 
be my wards. In the hearing of all these, I 
so swear.” 


The listener smiled again ; his eyes closed 
his hand fell down; and so still was he that 
they began to think him dead. Suddenly he 
stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,— 
“Nearer, uncles, nearer.” The old men 
bent over him, listening. 

“ A message to Guatamozin,—to whom I 
give my last thought, as king. Say to him, 
that this lingering in death is no fault of his; 
the aim was true, but the arrow splintered 
upon leaving the bow. And lest the world 
hold him to account for my blood, hear me 
say, all of you, that I bade him do what he 
did. 

“ And in sign that I love him, take my 
sceptre, and give it to him—” 

His voice fell away, yet the lips moved; 
lower the accents stooped,— 

“ Tulo and the empire go with the sceptre,” 
he murmured, and they were his last words,— 
his will. A wail from the women pronounced 
him dead. 





t 


Lydia Maria Child. 

Distinguished Writer and Reformer. 


ORN in Medford, Mass., February n, 1802, Lydia Maria Francis 
came of a good family who prized education. She was the 
pupil of an eccentric but talented woman, and was also 
instructed by her brother, who was afterward Professor of 
Theology at Harvard College. 

She began her literary life with “ Hobomok, a Tale of 
Early Times,” published in 1824. She had resided several years in 
Maine, far removed from all literary associations, but was then on a visit 
to her brother, a minister of the Unitarian Church in Watertown. One 
Sunday noon, soon after her arrival there, she took up a number of the 
North American Review, and read Dr. Palfrey’s article on “ Yamoyden,” 
in which he eloquently describes the adaptation of early New England his¬ 
tory to the purposes of fiction. 

She had never written a word for the press—never had dreamed of 
turning author—but the spell was on her, and seizing a pen, before the 
bell rung for the afternoon meeting she had composed the first chapter of 
the novel just as it is printed. When it was shown to her brother, her 
young ambition was flattered by the exclamation, But, Maria, did you 
really write this ? do you mean what you say, that it is entirely your 
own? ” The excellent doctor little knew the effect of his words. Her 
fate was fixed: in six weeks “ Hobomok ” was finished. It is a story of 
the Pilgrim times, and the scene is chiefly in Salem and Plymouth. 

This book was followed, in the next year, by “ The Rebels, a Tale of 
the Revolution.’’ It is worth mentioning, that the speech of James Otis, 
in this novel, which is often quoted in school books, and has found its 
way into histories, as authentic, as well as Whitefield’s celebrated sermon, 
in the same work, was coined entirely by Mrs. Child. 

“ The Mother’s Book,” and the u Girl’s Book,” appeared soon after 
and were designed to teach the true relations existing between mothers 
and their daughters. Her mind was turned toward the enlightenment 
and moral improvement of her own sex, and she wrote “ Lives of Madame 

22 337 




338 


LYDIA MARIA CHILD. 


de Stael and Roland,” in one volume; “ Lives of Lady Russel and 
Madame Guyon,” in one volume; “ Biographies of Good Wives,” in one 
volume ; and the “History and Condition of Women,” in two volumes. 

She was married to David Lee Child, a lawyer, in 1828, and went 
with him to reside in Boston. In 1835 s ^ e gathered into a work entitled 
“ The Coronal ” a number of miscellaneous pieces which had been pub¬ 
lished before. In the same year she embarked in the great agitation on 
the slavery question which was then in its infancy, and issued her 
“Appeal for that Class of Americans Called Africans.” Her powerful 
pen was often employed afterward in the cause she thus early espoused. 

What is thought by many to be her most beautiful work, namely, 
“ Philothea, a Romance of Greece in the Days of Pericles,” was published 
in 1835. It gave her among scholars and cultured readers a well merited 
fame. In 1841 Mrs. Child went with her husband to reside in New York 
and there conducted for some time “ The National Anti-Slavery Standard.” 
She was a conspicuous and admired figure among the foremost thinkers 
and reformers of her time. Having resided in New York many years, 
she died there October 20, 1880, in the seventy-eighth year of her age. 

Mrs. Child was a most industrious and voluminous author. Besides 
the works already referred to she wrote “ Flowers for Children,” three 
volumes, 1844-1846; “ Fact and Fiction,” 1846; “ The Power of Kind¬ 
ness,” 1851; “ A True Life of Isaac P. Hopper,” 1853 ; “ Autumnal 
Leaves,” 1856; “Looking Toward Sunset,” 1864; “The Freedman’s 
Book,” 1865; “Maria,” 1867; and “Aspirations of the World,” 1878, 
which was the last work of her long and busy life—issued just three 
years before her death. In 1882, two years after her demise, a volume 
of her letters was published with an introduction by the poet Whittier, 
and an appendix by Wendell Phillips. 


A STREET SCENE. 

PROM LETTERS FROM NEW YORK. 


T HE other day, as I came down Broome 
street, I saw a street musician, playing 
near the door of a genteel dwelling. 
The organ was uncommonly sweet and mellow 
in its tones, the tunes were slow and plaintive, 
and I fancied that I saw in the woman’s 
Italian face an expression that indicated suffi¬ 
cient refinement to prefer the tender and the 


melancholy, to the lively “ trainer tunes ” in 
vogue with the populace. She looked like 
one who had suffered much, and the sorrow¬ 
ful music seemed her own appropriate voice. 

A little girl clung to her scanty garments, 
as if afraid of all things but her mother. As 
I looked at them, a young lady of pleasing 
countenance opened the window, and began to 




LYDIA MARIA CHILD. 


339 


sing like a bird, in keeping with the street 
organ. Two other young girls came and 
leaned on her shoulder; and still she sang on. 
Blessings on her gentle heart! It was evi¬ 
dently the spontaneous gush of human love 
and sympathy. The beauty of the incident 
attracted attention. A group of gentlemen 
gradually collected round the organist; and 
ever as the tune ended, they bowed respect¬ 
fully toward the window, waved their hats, 
and called out, “More, if you please?” One, 
whom I knew well for the kindest and truest 
soul, passed round his hat; hearts were kindled, 
and the silver fell in freely. In a minute, 
four or five dollars were collected for the poor 
woman. She spoke no word of gratitude, but 
she gave such a look! 

“ Will you go to the next street, and play 
to a friend of mine?” said my kind-hearted 
friend. She answered, in tones expressing the 
deepest emotion. “ No, sir, God bless you all 


—God bless you all,” (making a courtesy to 
the young lady, who had stepped back, and 
stood sheltered by the curtain of the window,) 
“ I will play no more to-day; I will go home, 
now.” 

The tears trickled down her cheeks, and as 
she walked away, she had ever and anon 
wiped her eyes with the corner of her shawl. 
The group of gentlemen lingered a moment 
to look after her, then turning toward the now 
closed ■ window, they gave three enthusiastic 
cheers, and departed, better than they came. 
The pavement on which they stood had been 
a church to them ; and for the next houi*, at 
least, their hearts were more than usually 
prepared for deeds of gentleness and mercy. 
Why are such scenes so uncommon ? Why 
do we thus repress our sympathies, and chill 
the genial current of nature, by formal ob¬ 
servances and restraints? 


THE BEAUTY AND USES OF FLOWERS. 


H OW the universal heart of man blesses 
flowers! They are wreathed round 
the cradle, the marriage-altar, and the 
tomb. The Persian in the far East delights 
in their perfume, and writes his love in nose¬ 
gays ; while the Indian child of the far West 
clasps his hands with glee, as he gathers the 
abundant blossoms—the illuminated scripture 
of the prairies. The Cupid of the ancient 
Hindoos tipped his arrows with flowers ; and 
orange-buds are the bridal crown with us, a 
nation of yesterday. Flowers garlanded the 


Grecian altar, and they hang in votive 
wreaths before the Christian shrine. 

All these are appropriate uses. Flowers 
should deck the brow of the youthful bride; 
for they are in themselves a lovely type of 
marriage. They should twine round the 
tomb; for their perpetually renewed beauty 
is a symbol of the resurrection. They should 
festoon the altar; for their fragrance and 
their beauty ascend in perpetual worship 
before the Most High. 


UNSELFISHNESS. 

FROM LETTERS FROM NEW YORK. 


I FOUND the Battery unoccupied, save by 
children, whom the weather made as 
merry as birds. Every thing seemed 
moving to the vernal tune of 

“ Brignal banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green.” 

To one who was chasing her hoop, I said, 


smiling, “You are a nice little girl.” She 
stopped, looked up in my face, so rosy and 
happy, and laying her hand on her brother’s 
shoulder, exclaimed earnestly, “And he is a 
nice little boy, too! ” It was a simple, child¬ 
like act, but it brought a warm gush into my 
heart. 

Blessings on all unselfishness! on all that 







340 


LYDIA MARIA CHILD. 


leads us in love to prefer one another. Here 
lies the secret of universal harmony; this is 
the diapason, which would bring us all into 
tune. Only by losing ourselves can we find 
ourselves. How clearly does the divine voice 
within us proclaim this, by the hymn of joy it 
sings, whenever we witness an unselfish deed, 
or hear an unselfish thought. Blessings on 


that loving little one! She made the city 
seem a garden to me. I kissed my hand to 
her, as I turned off in quest of the Brooklyn 
ferry. The sparkling waters, swarmed with 
boats, some of which had taken a big ship by 
the hand, and were leading her out to sea, as 
the prattle of childhood often guides wisdom 
into the deepest and broadest thought. 


THE SELF-CONSCIOUS AND THE UNCONSCIOUS. 


W ITH whizz and glare the rocket rushed 
upward proclaiming to all men, “ Lo, 
I am coming! Look at me / ” Grace¬ 
fully it bent in the air, and sprinkled itself in 
shining fragments; but the gem-like sparks 
went out in the darkness, and a stick on the 
ground was all that remained of the rocket. 

High above the horizon a radiant star shone 
in quiet glory, making the night time beauti¬ 
ful. Men knew not when it rose; for it went 
up in the stillness. 

In a rich man’s garden stands a pagoda. 
The noise of the hammers told of its pro¬ 
gress, and all men knew how much was added 
to it day by day. It was a pretty toy, with 


curious carving and gilded bells. But it re 
mained as skill had fashioned it, and grew 
not, nor cast seed into the future. 

An oak noiselessly dropped an acorn near 
by, and two leaves sprang from the ground 
and became a fair young tree. The gardener 
said to the hawthorn, “ When did the oak go 
above you?” The hawthorn answered, “ 
do not know ; for it passed quietly by in the 
night.” 

Thus does mere talent whizz and hammer 
to produce the transient forms of things, while 
genius unconsciously evolves the great and the 
beautiful, and “ casts it silently into ever 
lasting time.” 


THANKSGIVING. 


O VER the river, and through the wood, 
To grandfather’s house we go; 

The horse knows the way 
To carry the sleigh, 

Through the white and drifted snow. 

Over the river, and through the wood ; 

Oh, how the wind does blow! 

It stings the toes, 

And bites the nose. 

As over the ground we ga 


Over the river, and through the wood ; 

And straight through the barn-yard gate; 
We seem to go, 

Extremely slow; 

It is so hard to wait! 

Over the river, and through the wood, 

Now grandmother’s cap I spy! 

Hurrah for the fun! 

Is the pudding done ? 

Hurrah for the pumpkin pie! 








Martha Finley. 

Author of the “ Elsie Books.” 


E attractive residence of Miss Finley, at Elkton, Maryland, is 
enough to remind one of her success as an author, by which she 
has been enabled to surround herself with the comforts and 
many of the luxuries of life. Her industry is one of her promi¬ 
nent traits, else she never could have written the number of 
volumes which have issued from her pen. Very easily, natur¬ 
ally, and always in a bright, sparkling style, she composes her stories, 
many of which are addressed to young people, notably the series known as 
the “Elsie Books.’’ 

Miss Finley was born in Chillicothe, Ohio, April 26th, 1828. Iu 
early life she lived with her grandfather, Major Samuel Finley, who was 
a member of the famous Virginia Cavalry in the War of the Revolution. 
The Major was a prominent character, and personal friend of Washington, 
who gave him the appointment of collector of revenues for the North¬ 
western Territory, which then embraced Ohio and surrounding regions. 

Martha was the sixth child of James Finley, who was a well-known 
physician. During the latter part of his life he resided at South Bend, 
Indiana, where he died in 1851. A little later Martha came to New York 
to reside with a widowed sister. It was here that she began to write 
stories for newspapers, and also turned her attention to Sunday-school 
books. She was compelled to pass through a period of illness and suffer¬ 
ing, owing to a serious affection of her eyes, which, for a time, threatened 
to deprive her of sight. Her life at this period was a good deal of a strug¬ 
gle, and a person of less courage and stamina would have found sufficient 
excuse for giving up literary work entirely. 

A stepmother in Philadelphia was very kind to her, furnished her 
with a home, and looked after her until the rewards of her pen placed her 
in an independent position. While in the Quaker City she composed 
and published her Elsie Stories, one of the most successful series of 
books for young people. Possessed of innate refinement, a good educa¬ 
tion, strong womanly instincts, and always writing in a plain, yet cap- 




342 


MARTHA FINLEY. 


tivating style, it is not difficult to discover the secret of her success. She 
has a host of friends in all parts of the country, who await the appear¬ 
ance of every new book with eagerness. 


GALLANT CAPTAIN BURROWS. 

FROM “ELSIE’S YOUNG FOLKS.” 

COPYRIGHT, DODD, MEAD & CO. 


(i rxIDN’T some other things happen 
I J along this coast, Grandma ? ” asked 
Ned. 

“Yes, indeed; several things. In the War 
of 1812-14 there occurred a naval battle near 
Portland, between the American ship Enter¬ 
prise and the English brig Boxer. On the 
morning of the 1st of September, 1813, the 
Enterprise sailed from Portsmouth, New 
Hampshire, and on the morning of the 3d 
chased the schooner suspected of being a 
British privateer into Portland harbor, The 
next day she left that harbor and steered 
eastward, looking for British cruisers. On 
the 5th they discovered in a bay what Captain 
Burrows supposed to be a vessel of war getting 
under way. She was a British brig, and on 
sighting the Enterprise she displayed four 
British ensigns, fired several guns as signals 
to boats that had been sent ashore to return, 
and, crowding canvas, bore down gallantly 
for the Enterprise. 

“Seeing that, Burrows cleared his ship for 
action, sailed out a proper distance from land 
to have plenty of sea room for the fight, then 
shortened sail and edged for the Boxer. That 
was at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Twenty 
minutes later the two brigs closed within half¬ 


pistol shot, and both opened fire at the same 
time. 

“ The sea was almost quiet, there was but 
little wind, and that condition of things made 
the cannonading very destructive. Ten min¬ 
utes after the firing began the Enterprise 
ranged ahead of the Boxer, steered across her 
bows and delivered her fire with such pre¬ 
cision and destructive energy that at 4 o’clock 
the British officer in command shouted through 
his trumpet that he had surrendered, but his 
flag being nailed to the mast could not be 
lowered until the Enterprise ceased firing.” 

“And did she, Grandma?” asked Ned. 

“ Yes, I do not think our men ever fired on 
a foe whom they believed to be ready to sur¬ 
render. Captain Blyth of the Boxer was 
already dead, having been nearly cut in two 
by an eighteen-pound ball, and Captain Bur¬ 
rows was mortally wounded. A shot struck 
his thigh, causing a fatal wound. He lived 
eight hours and must have suffered terrible 
agony. He refused to be carried below until 
the sword of the commander of the Boxer 
should be brought to him. He took it eagerly 
when brought, saying. ‘ Now, I am satisfied ; 

I die contented.’ ” 


ELSIE’S FAILURE. 

FROM “ELSIE DINSMORE.” 


COPYRIGHT, DODD, MEAD & CO. 


T HE lesson, though a difficult one, was 
very tolerably recited; for Elsie, know¬ 
ing Arthur’s propensity for teasing, had 
studied it in her room before school hours. 
But Miss Day handed the books back with a 
frown, saying, “ I told you the recitation must 


be perfect, and it was not. There are two 
incorrect figures in this example,” said she, 
laying down the slate, after glancing over its 
contents. Then taking up the copy-book, she 
exclaimed: “ Careless, disobedient child ! did I 
not caution you to be careful not to blot your 






MARTHA FINLEY. 


343 


book? There will be no ride for you this 
morning. You have failed in everything. 
Go to your seat. Make that example right, 
and do the next; learn your geography lesson 
over, and write another page in your copy¬ 
book ; and mind, if there is a blot on it, you 
will get no dinner.” 

Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her 
books and obeyed. 

During this scene Arthur stood at his desk 
pretending to study, but glancing every now 
and then at Elsie, with a conscience evidently 
ill at ease. She cast an imploring glance at 
him, as she returned to her seat; but he 
turned away his head, muttering, “ It’s all 
her own fault, for she wouldn’t let me help 
her.” 

As he looked up again, he caught his sister 
Lora’s eyes fixed on him with an expression 
of scorn and contempt. He colored violently, 
and dropped his upon his book. 

“ Miss Day,” said Lora, indignantly, “ I 
see Arthur does not mean to speak, and as I 
cannot bear to see such injustice, I must tell 
you that it is all his fault that Elsie has failed 
in her lessons; for she tried her very best, 
but he teased her incessantly, and also jogged 
her elbow and made her spill the ink on her 
book; and to her credit she was too honorable 
to tear out the leaf from her copy book, or to 
let him make her example right; both which 
he very generously proposed doing after caus¬ 
ing all the mischief.” 

“ Is this so, Arthur ? ” asked Miss Day, 
angrily. 

The boy hung his head but made no reply. 

“Very well, then,” said Miss Day, “you 
too must stay at home.” 

“Surely,” said Lora, in surprise, you will 
not keep Elsie, since I have shown you that 
she was not to blame.” 

“ Miss Lora,” replied her teacher, haughtily, 
“ I wish you to understand that I am not to 
be dictated to by my pupils.” 

Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss 
Day went on hearing the lessons without 
further remark. 

In the meantime little Elsie sat at her 
desk, striving to conquer the feelings of anger 
and indignation that were swelling in her 


breast; for Elsie, though she possessed much 
of “ the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,” 
was not yet perfect, and often had a fierce 
contest with her naturally quick temper. 

The recitations were scarcely finished when 
the door opened and a lady entered, dressed 
for a ride. 

“ Rot through yet, Miss Day?” she asked. 

“Yes, madam, we are just done,” replied 
the teacher, closing the French grammar and 
handing it to Louise. 

“Well, I hope your pupils have all done 
their duty this morning, and are ready to ac¬ 
company us to the fair,” said Mrs. Dinsmore. 
“ But what is the matter with Elsie?” 

“She has failed in all her exercises, and 
therefore has been told that she must remain 
at home,” replied Miss Day with heightened 
color and in a tone of anger; “ and as Miss 
Lora tells me that Master Arthur was partly 
the cause, I have forbidden him also to ac¬ 
company us.” 

“ Excuse me, Miss Day, for correcting you,” 
said Lora, a little indignantly; “ but I did not 
say partly, for I am sure it was entirely his 
fault.” 

“ Hush, hush, Lora,” said her mother, a lit¬ 
tle impatiently; “how can you be sure of any 
such thing; Miss Day, I must beg of you to 
excuse Arthur this once, for I have quite set 
my heart on taking him along. He is fond 
of mischief, I know, but he is only a child.” 

“ Mamma,” asked Lora, “ is not Elsie to be 
allowed to go too ? ” 

“ Elsie is not my child, and I have nothing 
to say about it. Miss Day, who knows all the 
circumstances, is much better able than I to 
judge whether or no she is deserving of pun¬ 
ishment,” replied Mrs. Dinsmore, sailing out 
of the room. 

“You will let her go, Miss Day?” said 
Lora, inquiringly. 

“Miss Lora,” replied Miss Day, angrily, 
“ I have already told you I was not to be dic¬ 
tated to. I have said Elsie must remain at 
home, and I shall not break my word.” 

“Such injustice!” muttered Lora, turning 
away. 

Miss Day hastily quitted the room, followed 
by Louise and Lora, and Elsie was left alone. 



Patrick Henry. 

The Famous Orator of the Revolution. 


0 great became the name of this magnificent leader in tbe cause 
of American Independence, that one finds it hard to believe the 
stories of his idleness, his love of dancing and sports, and the 
utter lack of promise that characterized his early life. The 
Scotch would have called him a “ ne’er-do-weel.” But he did 
do well at a later period, and rose to the very pinnacle of 
eloquence and fame. 

The literature of our country has no grander examples of forensic 
oratory than those thrilling speeches which stirred the colonies to revo¬ 
lution and animated them in their heroic struggle for a name and place 
among the nations of the earth. “ Give me liberty, or give me death ! ” 
was the war-cry of 1776. On the eventful scene of that great conflict no 
orator of more magnetic power or more commanding eloquence than 
Patrick Henry appeared, and he was a tower of strength to the mail-clad 
heroes who stood with grim faces to the foe. 

Patrick Henry was born May 29, 1736, in Hanover County, Virginia. 
His father was a native of Aberdeen, in Scotland. Patrick’s education 
was scanty, and he entered upon the practice of the law after only six 
weeks of preparation. But his powers of eloquence were remarkable. 
He was elected repeatedly to the most important offices in the gift of the 
people of Virginia. In 1788, he was a member of the Convention which 
met there to consider the Constitution of the United States, and exerted 
himself strenuously against its adoption. He died in 1799. 

The Virginia Convention having before them resolutions of a tem¬ 
porizing character towards Great Britain, March 23, 1775, Mr. Henry 
introduced others, manly and decided in their tone, and providing that 
the colony should be immediately put in a state of defence. These 
counter resolutions he supported in the following memorable speech, the 
result of which was their adoption. Of the effect of this speech, Mr. 
Wirt says, that, when Henry took his seat, at its close, “ No murmur of 

applause was heard. The effect was too deep. After the trance of a 

344 




PATRICK HENRY. 


345 


moment, several members started from their seats. The cry to arms ! 
seemed to quiver on every lip, and gleam from every eye. They became 
impatient of speech. Their souls were on fire for action.” 

In the Virginia Convention of 1788 Mr. Henry opposed the adoption 
of the Federal Constitution. He said it had “ an awful squinting toward 
monarchy.” Monarchy had no name or place in his plan for national 
government; he was the bitter foe of the “ gew-gaws that bedeck a king.” 
He was a devout believer in Christianity, but was not a member of any 
religious denomination. 


RESISTANCE TO BRITISH AGGRESSION. 


M R. PRESIDENT, it is natural to man to 
indulge in the illusions of Hope. We 
are apt to shut our eyes against a 
painful truth, and listen to the song of 
that siren, till she transforms us into 
beasts. Is this the part of wise men, 
engaged in a great and arduous struggle 
for liberty ? Are we disposed to be of the 
number of those who, having eyes see not, 
and having ears, hear not, the things which 
so . nearly concern our temporal salvation ? 
For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it 
may cost, I am willing to know the whole 
truth,—to know the worst, and to provide 
for it! 

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are 
guided; and that is the lamp of experience. 
I know of no way of judging of the future 
but by the past. And, judging by the past, 
I wish to know what there has been in the 
conduct of the British ministry, for the last 
ten years, to justify those hopes with which 
gentlemen have been pleased to solace them¬ 
selves and the House? Is it that insidious 
smile with which our petition has been lately 
received ? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a 
snare to your feet! Suffer not yourselves to 
be betrayed with a kiss! Ask yourselves 
how this gracious reception of our petition 
comports with those warlike preparations 
which cover our waters and darken our land. 
Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of 
love and reconciliation? Have we shown 
ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that 
force must be called in to win back our love ? 


Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These 
are the implements of war and subjugation,— 
the last arguments to which kings resort. I 
ask gentlemen, Sir, what means this martial 
array, if its purpose be not to force us to sub¬ 
mission? Can gentlemen assign any other 
possible motive for it? Has Great Britain 
any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call 
for all this accumulation of navies and armies ? 
No, sir, she has none. They are meant for 
us; they can be meant for no other. They 
are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those 
chains which the British ministry have been 
so long forging. And what have we to 
oppose to them ?—Shall we try argument ? 
Sir, we have been trying that, for the last ten 
years. Have we anything new to offer upon 
the subject? Nothing. We have held the 
subject up in every light of which it is capa¬ 
ble ; but it has been all in vain. 

Shall we resort to entreaty and humble 
supplication? What terms shall we find 
which have not already been exhausted ? Let 
us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves 
longer. Sir, we have done everything that 
could be done, to avert the storm which is 
now coming on. We have petitioned, we 
have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we 
have prostrated ourselves before the Throne, 
and have implored its interposition to arrest 
the tyrannical hands of the Ministry and 
Parliament. Our petitions have heen slighted, 
our remonstrances have produced additional 
violence and insult, our supplications have 
been disregarded, and we have been 




346 


PATRICK HENRY. 


spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the 
Throne. 

In vain, after these things may we indulge 
the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. 
There is no longer any room for hope. If we 
wish to be free,—if we mean to preserve in¬ 
violate those inestimable privileges for which 
we have been so long contending,—if we mean 


not basely to abandon the noble struggle in 
which we have been so long engaged, and 
which we have pledged ourselves never to 
abandon until the glorious object of our con¬ 
test shall be obtained,—we must fight; I 
repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to 
arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is 
left us ? 


THE WAR INEVITABLE. 


r T'IIEY tell us, sir, that we are weak,— 
I unable to cope with so formidable an 
adversary. But when shall we be 
stronger ? Will it be the next week, or the 
next year ? Will it be when we are totally 
disarmed, and when a British guard shall be 
stationed in every house? Shall we gather 
strength by irresolution and inaction ? Shall 
we acquire the means of effectual resistance 
by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging 
the delusive phantom of hope, until our ene¬ 
mies shall have bound us hand and foot? 
Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper 
use of those means which the God of nature 
hath placed in our power. 

Three millions of People armed in the holy 
cause of liberty and in such a country as that 
which we possess are invincible by any force 
which our enemy can send against us. Be¬ 
sides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. 
There is a just God who presides over the 
destinies of nations, and who will raise up 
friends to fight our battles for us. The 


battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it 
is to the vigilant, the active, the brave 
Besides, sir, we have no election. If we 
were base enough to desire it, it is now 
too late to retire from the contest. There is 
no retreat but in submission and slavery! 
Our chains are forged! Their clanking may 
be heard on the plains of Boston! The war 
is inevitable; and let it come ! I repeat it, 
sir, let it come ! 

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. 
Gentlemen may cry, peace, peace! —but there 
is no peace. The war is actually begun! The 
next gale that sweeps from the North will 
bring to our ears the clash of resounding 
arms ! Our brethren are already in the 
field ! Why stand we here idle ? What is it 
that gentlemen wish ? What would they 
have ? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as 
to be purchased at the price of chains and 
slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I 
know not what course others may take ; but 
as for me, give me liberty, or give me death! 


WE WANT MEN. 


1 VENTURE to prophesy, there are those 
now living who will see this favored land 
amongst the most powerful on earth,— 
able, sir, to take care of herself, without resort¬ 
ing to that policy, which is always so danger¬ 
ous, though sometimes unavoidable, of calling 
iu foreign aid. Yes, sir, they will see her 
great in arts and in arms,—her golden harvest 
waving over fields of immeasurable extent, 
her commerce penetrating the most distant 
seas, and her cannon silencing the vain boasts 
of those who now proudly affect to rule the 


waves. But, sir, you must have men ,—you 
cannot get along without them. Those heavy 
forests of valuable timber, under which your 
lands are groaning, must be cleared away. 
Those vast riches which cover the face of 
your soil, as well as those which lie hid in 
its bosom, are to be developed and gathered. 
Your timber, sir, must be worked up into 
ships, to transport the productions of the soil 
from which it has been cleared. Then, you 
must have commercial men and commercial 
capital. Your great want, sir, is men. 







James Maurice Thompson. 

Author and Naturalist. 


HAPPY diversity of talent is that of Mr. Thompson, who was 
qualified in 1885 to be chief of the State Geological Survey, 
while at the same time he was capable of writing romances 
that secured a wide circle of readers. He was a lover of birds 
especially, and took high rank as an ornithologist, thus becom¬ 
ing prominent as an author and a naturalist. 

Mr. Thompson was born at Fairfield, Indiana, September 9, 1844. 
He was not destined, however, to reside long in his native State at this 
time. His parents removed to Kentucky, where they remained for a 
short period and then took up their abode in Georgia. As he grew up in 
this State, with its strong Southern sentiment, he naturally took sides 
with the Confederates and enlisted and fought under their banner. He 
returned to Indiana at the end of the war and engaged with a railway 
surveying party. Very soon he made his way to the highest position 
connected with this work, in which he was engaged for a number of years. 
He then began the study of law and commenced his practice at Crawfords- 
ville, Indiana. In 1879 he was elected to the Legislature from his district. 

Mr. Thompson’s delight was to visit Florida and in its swamps and 
glades to study the habits of the animals and birds. He had a strange 
antipathy to the use of the gun, but always took with him his bow and 
arrow. In fact, he wrote a book upon archery, and all through his writ¬ 
ings he makes allusions to these Indian weapons. 

Mr. Thompson’s writings in various periodicals attracted attention. 
His style is clear and incisive, he has a wide command of language, and 
his imagination has about it a southern glow quite captivating to the 
reader. Having turned his attention toward fiction, he became a suc¬ 
cessful author. Several of his first works received only a moderate 
recognition, but some of the later ones, especially “ Alice of Old Vincen- 
nes,’’ brought him into prominence. In 1875 he published a work 
entitled “Hoosier Mosaics.” Afterward appeared quite a number of 
volumes, among which are, “ The Witchery of Archery,” “ The Talla- 

347 






348 JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 

hassee Girl,” “ His Second Campaign,” “ Songs of Fair Weather,” “ At 
Love’s Extremes,” “ By-ways and Bird Notes,” “ The Boy’s Book of 
Sports,” “ A Banker of Bankerville,” “ Sylvan Secrets,” “ The Story of 
Louisiana,” “A Fortnight of Folly.” After a very industrious and 
prominent career, Mr. Thompson died in February, 1901. 


“A VISION OF FLORIDA.” 

FROM “A TALLAHASSEE GIRL.” 


T HE reader will remember a picture which 
caused such a stir in Parisian art cirles. 
It was called “A Vision of Florida,’’ 
and was done in the highest and most com¬ 
mendable style of the impressionist school. 
It was a young girl, dark-eyed, black-haired, 
brown-faced, lithe, innocent, clothed in white 
and dull scarlet, sitting on a rustic seat under 
a huge, moss-hung, live-oak tree. In the 
back ground there was a glimpse of an old 
gray mansion with a decaying veranda and a 
many-gabled roof. 

A mysterious charm hung about the picture, 
defying criticism and captivating the imagin¬ 
ation. One tried in vain to analyze the feel¬ 
ing which crept over him as he contemplated 
that sweet, happy, half-languid, half-insistant 
face. It was somewhat the face of a beautiful 
child just aroused from gentle sleep and won¬ 
derful dreams. It half lingered with the recol¬ 
lections of those dreams, it half inquired about 
the present and the promise of the morrow. 
Such a face will haunt one, such a form will 
stay in one’s memory and rob one of rest. 

Lawrence Cauthorne chanced to come upon 
the picture at the exhibition, and at once— 
struck numb with a bolt of sorrow he had 
fancied dead—stood breathless before it. It 
was as if he stood on the lawn at La Rue 
place, with Lucie sitting in the old favorite 
seat before him. 


The feeling came and passed, like a hot, hurt¬ 
ful breath wafted from a malarious place; and 
then he carefully examined the canvas as one 
who is coldly critical. It was the work, as 
the reader already knows, of Herman Willard. 
It has made him famous. 

Cauthorne and Willard seldom meet now; 
they have, by a tacit consent, drifted away 
from each other. Once they had a little talk 
in which they mutually confessed the foolish¬ 
ness of nursing the Tallahassee memory. 

“We really missed getting inside of that 
strange little world, after all,” said Willard, 
toying with a cigarette. 

“ I got too far for my peace of mind, I 
fear,” replied Cauthorne. 

“ Why should it affect one’s peace of mind ? ” 
demanded Willard. “ We dropped in there 
like strange beings from another planet. She 
looked cautiously and inquiringly at us; she 
enjoyed us as somewhat new and interesting; 
but she loved Vance before she ever saw us, 
and she was, like a true, sweet woman, the 
world over, faithful and loyal to her lord. 
The thing has its touch of pathos, its pang, its 
irony; but it also has the dewy freshness and 
tenderness, and joyfulness of the old, old 
story. It ended in a happy marriage. What 
could be added ? Is it not a perfectly rounded 
poem?” 







Jane Goodwin Austin. 

Author of Historical Novels. 


ARLY New England History Has fumisHed Mrs. Austin with 
abundant material for Her interesting stories, in several of 
which she describes the character of the Pilgrims, their strug¬ 
gles, sacrifices and heroic endurance. Her writings commem¬ 
orate an important period in our national life and form a glow¬ 
ing record of the brave souls who conquered the wilderness: 

“ Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on; 

And link high thoughts to every glen 
Where valiant deeds were done.” 

The descendants of the early settlers of Plymouth, Boston, Salem 
and other localities, are indebted to Mrs. Austin for her successful rescue 
from oblivion of much that should be embodied in the standard history 
of our country. She made repeated visits to Plymouth, Massachusetts, 
and other places associated with the Puritans, in order to become more 
fully acquainted, by personal investigation, with the characters she was 
to delineate and the events and traditions associated with their entry into 
the new world. 

Herself a descendant of the Mayflower Pilgrims in several distinct 
lines, it is not, perhaps surprising that she should become the chronicler 
of their sufferings and achievements. But let it not be supposed she is 
a blind worshipper of their heroic traits, or an apologist for their frailties. 
She aims to present truthful portraits and make record of authentic history. 

Mrs. Austin was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, 1831. Her 
maiden name was Goodwin. Her father was a prominent lawyer and 
genealogist. Her mother was a person of literary tendencies, a student 
of history and had a rich fund of anecdotes and traditions, many of which 
Mrs. Austin has embodied in her works. 

Mrs. Austin wrote a series of “ Pilgrim Story-books,” the fifth and 
last of which was finished in 1891. The best of these are “The Name¬ 
less Nobleman,” 1881; “Standish of Standish,” 1889; and “ Betty Alden,” 

349 






350 


JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 

1891. These cover the ground from the landing of the Pilgrims upon 
Plymouth Rock iu 1620 to the days of the Revolution in 1775. Aside 
from these books, Mrs. Austin has produced in addition to a number of 
magazine stories and some poems, “ Fairy Dream,” 1859; “ Dora Dar¬ 
ling,” 1865; “ Outpost,” 1866; “Taylor Boy,” 1867; “Cypher,” 1869; 
“ The Shadow of Moloch Mountain,” 1870; “Moon-Folk,” 18745 “Mrs. 
Beauchamp Brown,” 1880; and “Nantucket Scraps,” 1882. 


THE OLD GARRISON. 


T HE autumn twilight was deepening into 
night as Beatrice Wansted reached her 
home, and paused, before pushing open 
the swinging gate, to look at it with a strange 
distaste. 

“ How can I go in and sit down as if noth¬ 
ing had happened? How can I smile, and 
talk, and live day after day? How long will 
it be before I break out into raving madness, 
crazed by the cold monotony of such a life— 
such a life for me?” 

So whispering, she leaned upon the mossy 
fence, and stared at the old house with such 
distasteful interest as a trappist, newly hidden 
but not divorced from the world, might feel 
for the spot where he is bid to dig his future 
grave, 

And yet the Old Garrison, as Milvor called 
it, was no uncheerful dwelling, albeit vener¬ 
able and quaint as its origin promised. More 
than two hundred years ago—not fifty after 
Beatrice Cenci had expiated upon the scaffold 
her most righteous crime—a party of Puritans, 
straying from the settlement about Plymouth 
Bay, had urged their skiff up Milvor Branch, 
and at its head had diverged into Millbrook, 
following the bright course of its waters, until, 
not far from the mouth, they curved in a sud¬ 
den bend about a pretty knoll surrounded by 
rich meadow-land. 

Here they halted, and here one of the party, 
Peleg Barstow, by name, decided to remain ; 
and being a godly and just man, bestowed 
such treasure of beads, gunpowder, cloth, and, 
it may be, less innocent wares, upon the Indian 
owners, as induced them to affix their signs- 
manual to a deed, yet extant in the old house. 


by which they made over to Peleg Barstow 
and his heirs forever all right and title to 
knoll, meadows, upland, brook, and the her¬ 
ring which crowded its merry waters, forever 
and a day. 

But—alas! that we should say it—not fifty 
years later, Peleg and his sons found them¬ 
selves obliged to fortify their dwelling against 
the invasion of these same savage allies, now 
become their cruel enemies; and so success¬ 
fully did they strengthen its defences that the 
women and children for miles around flocked 
to them for shelter, and the house received 
the name it has since retained, and is still 
known as the Old Garrison. 

But to the few rooms of the original house 
with their walls three feet in thickness, and 
their leaden casements with tiny diamond¬ 
shaped panes, came to be added, by successive 
generations of Barstows, additions of such 
style and size as suited the wants or the taste 
of the builders, so that the house stood finally 
a sort of hieroglyphic genealogy of the race, 
and Beatrice Wansted might have read, had 
she been so minded, the story of her ancestors 
in the motley architecture of the home they 
had bequeathed her. 

But Time has power over none but his own 
dominion, and though the work of old Peleg 
Barstow’s hands had well-nigh mingled with 
the dust that had once been flesh and bones 
of that sturdy old Puritan, the knoll and the 
brook, and human nature remained much as 
they had been in his day; and this his fair 
descendant stood contemplating her home in 
the gray twilight, with far less thought of the 
past it represented, than of her own future, 




351 


JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 


linked it might be to those crumbling walls— 
it might be to far different scenes. 

“ But never,” whispered Beatrice again, as 
she softly swung open the gate, “ never to be 
passed at your side, or beneath your feet, 
Marston Brent—never—never ! ” 

She murmured the words again and again, 
the bitter refrain of a dreary song, as she 
lingered up the narrow path whose box-bor¬ 
ders, brushed by her garments, gave out a 
faint, melancholy perfume, a perfume of night 
and autumn, of dead memories and hopes, and 
life slowly lapsing into death, and then decay 
and nothingness. 

Fine ladies have their fancies, and in after 
years it was noted as one of Miss Wansted’s 
whims to detest the sight or smell of box- 
plants. 

Near the door she paused, and stood look¬ 
ing in at the unshuttered window with the 
same half-loathing interest that had held her 
at the garden-gate. 

She saw a room low and large, its ceiling 
divided by two heavy beams crossing each 
other in the centre. Other beams stood sentry 
in the corners, and ran like a low bench 
around the side of the room. To one of these 
a descendant of Peleg Barstow, crazed through 
religious fanaticism, had been chained by his 
family, and then had dragged out the twenty 
weary years lying between such strange im¬ 
prisonment and death. The scar worn by his 
chain still stared from the heavy beam—a 
character, and a significant one, in the hiero¬ 
glyphic history unconsciously left behind by 
the successive occupants of the Old Garrison. 

At one end of the room yawned a fireplace 
so wide that the bright copper andirons, with 
their load of three-foot maple logs, were quite 
at one end of it, while at the other end and 
in the back of the chimney was the door of a 
: reat brick oven, and below it a bench where 


Beatrice, a little rebellious imp, had often 
been set to recover from the effects of too long 
a ramble in the winter woods, or an involun¬ 
tary immersion in the icy waters of the brook. 

In one of the deep recesses of the windows 
lay an enormous tortoise-shell cat, her fore¬ 
paws curled under her breast, her yellow eyes 
half closed, and winking slowly at the fire. 
Beyond her in the corner stood a clock, reach¬ 
ing from floor to ceiling, sedate and grave, in 
spite of the glittering brass ornaments which 
it wore as meekly as an old lady wears the 
gold beads she retains from habit, although 
the vanities of youth have long been laid aside. 

Above the high mantle-shelf was fastened 
the head and branching antlers of a deer, and 
as the firelight rose and fell, its shadow, chang¬ 
ing in every fantastic fashion, danced upon 
the ceiling—now spreading to its farthest 
limit, in semblance of a tangled arabesque, 
now shrinking to such narrow limits and so 
defined a shape that it. might have been the 
ghost of the murdered stag peering down into 
the room and demanding restitution of his 
stolen honors. 

All alone in his deep arm-chair, before the 
fire, sat an old man—a man so old that his 
hair, long and thick and soft, had not one 
dark thread left in its creamy masses; that his 
face was not lined, but grained with wrinkles; 
that his toothless jaws met in a straight, deep 
line, hiding in great measure the expression 
of the mouth; and his form was bowed and 
trembling, even as he sat motionless before 
the fire. His eyes shrewd and kindly, even 
through the dimness of age, were fixed upon 
the blaze, and his white and shapely hands 
were folded meditatively upon his knee. A 
charming picture of serene old age, but Bea¬ 
trice regarded it with a shiver. 

“ Ninety-four years old ! ” murmured she 
“ and I but twenty. If I should live till then! ” 



Washington Allston. 

Renowned Author and Artist. 


ROM every point of view Mr. Allston was eminent, and in some 
respects our country can boast no name entitled to greater ad¬ 
miration. Although he was most distinguished as an artist, 
his place in literature is an honored one. He would be more 
lauded as an author but for his exalted rank in the world of 
art, his great achievements with the painter’s brush over¬ 
shadowing the productions of his pen. Yet he has made his own place 
in our distinctive literature. 

He was enthralled by his own art. His grand conceptions on canvas 
outstripped his power to execute and place them before the world’s 
admiring eye. Yet as no account of American art would be complete 
without a description of his peerless masterpieces, so any treatise on our 
literature would be deficient without the mention of those finished wri¬ 
tings which have conferred upon him lasting fame. 

Griswold says : “Although Mr. Allston owed his chief celebrity to 
his paintings, which will preserve for his name a place in the list of the 
greatest artists of all the nations and ages, his literary works alone would 
have given him a high rank among men of genius. 

“‘The Sylphs of the Seasons,’ his longest poem, in which he 
describes the scenery of Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter, and the 
effects of each season on the mind, show that, he regarded nature with a 
curious eye, and had power to exhibit her beauties with wonderful dis¬ 
tinctness and fidelity. ‘ The Two Painters ’ is an admirable satire, in¬ 
tended to ridicule attempts to reach perfection in one excellency in the 
art of painting, to the neglect of every other. Nearly all his minor 
poems are strikingly original and beautiful.” 

Mr. Allston was the author of “ Monaldi,” a story of extraordinary 
power and interest, in which he displays a deep sensibility to beauty, and 
philosophic knowledge of human passion. 

Mr. Allston was born in South Carolina, of a family which has con¬ 
tributed some eminent names to our annals, though none that sheds more 

852 




WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 


353 


lustre upon the parent stock than his own.. When very young, by the 
advice of physicians, he was sent to Newport, Rhode Island, where he 
remained until he entered Harvard College in 1796. In his boyhood he 
delighted to listen to the wild tales and traditions of the negroes upon 
his father’s plantation ; and while preparing for college, and after his 
removal to Cambridge, no books gave him so much pleasure as the most 
marvellous and terrible creations of the imagination. At Newport he 
became acquainted with Malbone, the painter, and was thus, perhaps, led 
to the choice of his profession. He began to paint in oil before he went 
to Cambridge, and while there divided his attention between his pencil 
and his books. 

Upon being graduated he returned to South Carolina, to make 
arrangements for prosecuting his studies in Europe. He had friends 
who offered to assist him with money, and one of them, a Scottish gen¬ 
tleman named Bowman, who had seen and admired a head which he had 
painted of Peter hearing the cock crow, pressed him to accept an annuity 
of one hundred pounds while he should remain abroad; but he declined 
it, having already sold his paternal estate for a sum sufficient to defray 
his looked-for expenses; and, with his friend Malbone, embarked for 
England in the summer of 1801. 

Soon after his arrival in London, he became a student of the Royal 
Academy, then under the presidency of our countryman, West, with 
whom he contracted an intimate and lasting friendship. His abilities as 
an artist, brilliant conversation, and gentlemanly manners, made him a 
welcome guest at the houses of the great painters of the time; and within 
a year from the beginning of his residence in London, he was a success¬ 
ful exhibitor at the Somerset House, and a general favorite with the most 
distinguished members of his profession. 

Iu 1809 Allston returned to America, and was soon after married at 
Boston to a sister of Dr. Channiug. In 1811 he went a second time to 
England. His reputation as a painter was now well established, and he 
gained by his picture of the “ Dead Man Raised by the Bones of Elisha ” 
a prize of two hundred guineas, at the British Institution, where the 
first artists in the world were his competitors. A long and dangerous 
illness succeeded his return to London, and he removed to the village of 
Clifton, where he wrote “ The Sylphs of the Seasons,” and some of the 
other poems included in a volume which he published in 1813. Within 

two weeks after the renewal of his residence in the metropolis, in the 

23 


354 


WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 


last-mentioned year, his wife died, very suddenly ; and the event, induc¬ 
ing the deepest depression and melancholy, caused a temporary suspen¬ 
sion of his letters. 

In 181S he accompanied Leslie to Paris, and in the autumn of the 
following year came back to America, having been previously elected an 
associate of the English Royal Academy. In 1830 he married a sister 
of Richard H. Dana, and the remainder of his life was tranquilly passed 
at Cambridgeport, near Boston, where he was surrounded by warm and 
genial friends, in assiduous devotion to his art. He died very suddenly, 
on the night of the eighth of July, 1843. 

As a painter Allston had no superior, perhaps not an equal, in his 
age. He differed, from his contemporaries, as he said of “ Monaldi,” 
“ no less in kind than in degree. If he held anything in common with 
others, it was with those of ages past, with the mighty dead of the fifteenth 
century. From them he had learned the language of his art, but his 
thoughts, and their turn of expression were his own.” Among his prin¬ 
cipal works are “ The Dead Man Restored to Life by Elisha; ” the “Angel 
Liberating Peter from Prison ; ” “Jacob’s Dream; ’’ “ Elisha in the Desert;” 
the “ Triumphant Song of Miriam ; ” “ The Angel Uriel in the Sun ; ” 
“ Saul and the Witch of Endor; ” “ Spalatro’s Vision of the Bloody 
Hand ; ” “ Gabriel Setting the Guard of the Heavenly Host; ” “ Anne 
Page and Slender;” “Rosalie;” “Donna Marcia in the Robber’s Cave;” 
and “ Belshazzar’s Feast, or the Handwriting on the Wall.” He had 
been engaged twenty years, off and on, in developing his sublime con¬ 
ceptions of this Biblical scene, and left it unfinished at his death. 


THE LANGUAGE OF AUTUMN. 

FROM “THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.” 


ND now, in accents deep and low, 
Like voice of fondly-cherished woe, 
The Sylph of Autumn said: 

“ Though I may not of rapture sing, 

That graced the gentle song of Spring, 
Like Summer, playful pleasures bring, 
Thy youthful heart to glad; 

“ Yet still may I in hope aspire 
Thy heart to touch with chaster fire, 

And purifying love; 

For I with vision high and Holy, 


And spell of quickening melancholy 
Thy soul from sublunary folly 
First raised to worlds above. 

What though be mine the treasures 
fair 

Of purple grape and yellow pear, 

And fruits of various hue, 

And harvests rich of golden grain, 

That dance in waves along the plain 
To merry song of reaping swain, 
Beneath the welkin blue; 





WASHINGTON AELSTON. 


355 


“ With these T may not urge my suit, 

Of Summer’s patient toil the fruit, 

For mortal purpose given ; 

Nor may it fit my sober mood 
To sing of sweetly murmuring flood, 

Or dyes of many colored wood, 

That mock the bow of heaven, 

“ But, know, ’t was mine the secret power 
That waked thee at the midnight hour 
In bleak November’s reign : 

’T was I the spell around thee cast, 
When thou didst hear the hollow blast 
In murmurs tell of pleasures past, 

That ne’er would come again : 

“ And led thee, when the storm was o’er, 
To hear the sullen ocean roar, 

By dreadful calm oppressed; 

Which still, though not a breeze was 
there, 

Its mountain-billows heaved in air, 

As if a living thing it were. 

That strove in vain for rest. 

“ ’T was I, when thou, subdued by woe, 
Didst watch the leaves descending slow, 
To each a moral gave; 


And as they moved in mournful train, 
With rustling sound, along the plain, 
Taught them to sing a seraph’s strain 
Of peace within the grave. 

“ And then, upraised thy streaming eye, 

I met thee in the western sky 
In pomp of evening cloud; 

That, while with varying form it rolled, 
Some wizard’s castle seemed of gold, 

And now a crimsoned knight of old, 

Or king in purple proud. 

“ And last, as sunk the setting sun, 

And Evening with her shadows dun 
The gorgeous pageant past, 

’T was then of life a mimic show, 

Of human grandeur here below, 

Which thus beneath the fatal blow 
Of Death must fall at last. 

“ O, Chen with what aspiring gaze 
Didst thou thy tranced vision raise 
To yonder orbs on high, 

And think how wondrous, how sublime 
’T were upwards to their spheres to climb, 
And live, beyond the reach of Time, 

Child of Eternity! ” 


AN IMPRESSIVE VISION. 

PROM “ MONALDI.” 


A FTER waiting some time for my con¬ 
ductor’s return, and finding little worth 
looking at besides the Lanfranc, I 
turned to leave the chapel by the way I had 
entered; but, taking a wrong door, I came 
into a dark passage, leading, as I supposed, 
to an inner court. This being my first visit 
to a convent, a natural curiosity tempted me 
to proceed, when, instead of a court, I found 
myself in a large apartment. The light 
(which descended from above) was so power¬ 
ful, that for nearly a minute I could dis¬ 
tinguish nothing, and I rested on a form 
attached to the wainscoating. I then put up 
my hand to shade my eyes, when—the fearful 
vision is even now before me—I seemed to be 
standing before an abyss in space, boundless 
and black. 


In the midst of this permeable pitch stood 
a colossal mass of gold, in shape like an altar, 
and girdled about by a huge serpent, gorgeous 
and terrible; his body flecked with diamonds, 
and his head, an enormous carbuncle, floated 
like a meteor on the air above. Such was 
the Throne. But no words can describe the 
gigantic Being that sat thereon—the grace, 
the majesty, its transcendant form; and yet I 
shuddered as I looked, for its superhuman 
countenance seemed, as it were, to radiate 
falsehood; every feature was in contradiction 
—the eye, the mouth, even to the nostril— 
whilst the expression of the whole was of that 
unnatural softness which can only be con¬ 
ceived of malignant blandishment. It was 
the appalling beauty of the King of Hell. 

The frightful discord vibrated through my 





356 


WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 


whole frame, and I turned for relief to the 
figure below; for at his feet knelt one who 
appeared to belong to our race of earth. But 
I had turned from the first, only to witness in 
this second object its withering fascination. 
It was a man apparently in the prime of life, 
but pale and emaciated, as if prematurely 
wasted by his unholy devotion, yet still de¬ 
voted—with outstretched hands, and eyes 
upraised to their idol, fixed with a vehemence 
that seemed almost to start them from their 
sockets. The agony of his eye, contrasting 
with the prostrate, reckless worship of his at¬ 
titude, but too well told his tale; I beheld the 


mortal conflict between the conscience and the 
will—the visible struggle of a soul in the toils 
of sin. I could look no longer. 

As I turned, the prior was standing before 
me. “Yes,” said he, as if replying to my 
thoughts, “ it is indeed terrific. Had you be¬ 
held it unmoved you had been the first that 
ever did so.” 

“There is a tremendous reality in the pic¬ 
ture that comes home to every man’s imagina¬ 
tion : even the dullest feel it, as if it had the 
power of calling up that faculty in minds 
never before conscious of it, or whose imagin¬ 
ation was lying dormant.” 


ROSALIE. 


O POUR upon my soul again 

That sad, unearthly strain, 

7 That seems from other worlds too plain ; 
Thus falling, falling from afar, 

As if some melancholy star 

Had mingled with her light her sighs, 

And dropped them from the skies. 

No — never came from aught below 
This melody of woe. 

That makes my heart to overflow 
As from a thousand gushing springs 
Unknown before ; that with it brings 
This nameless light — if light it be— 

That veils the world I see. 


For all I see around me wears 
The hue of other spheres; 

And something blent of smiles and tears 
Comes from the very air I breathe. 

O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath, 

Can mould a sadness like to this— 

So like angelic bliss. 

So, at that dreamy hour of day, 

When the last lingering ray 
Stops on the highest cloud to play— 

So thought the gentle Rosalie 
As on her maiden revery 
First fell the strain of him who stole 
In music to her soul. * 


THE SPANISH MAID. 


F IVE weary months sweet Inez numbered 
From that unfading bitter day 
When last she heard the trumpet bray 
That called her Isidor away— 

That never to her heart has slumbered ; 

She hears it now, and sees, far bending 
Along the mountain’s misty side, 

His plumed troop, that, waving wide, 
Seems like a rippling, feathery tide, 

Now bright, now with the dim shore blending 

She hears the cannon’s deadly rattle— 

And fancy hurries on to strife, 


And hears the drum and screaming fife 
Mix with the last sad cry of life. 

O, should he—should he fall in battle! 

Yet still his name would live in story, 

And every gallant bard in Spain 
Would fight his battles o’er again. 

And would not she for such a strain 
Resign him to his country’s glory? 

Thus Inez thought, and plucked the flower 
That grew upon the very bank 
Where first her ear bewildered drank 
The plighted vow—where last she sank 
In that too bitter parting hour. 







WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 


857 


But now the sun is westward sinking; 
And soon amid the purple haze, 

That showers from his slanting rays, 

A thousand loves there meet her gaze, 
To change her high heroic thinking. 

Then hope, with all its crowd of fancies, 
Before her flits and fills the air; 

And decked in victory’s glorious gear, 
In vision Isidor is there. 

Then how her heart mid sadness dances! 

Yet little thought she, thus forestalling 
The coming joy, that in that hour 
The future, like the colored shower 
That seems to arch the ocean o’er, 

Was in the living present falling. 


The foe is slain. His sable charger 
All flecked with foam comes bounding on. 
The wild Morena rings anon, 

And on its brow the gallant Don, 

And gallant steed grow larger, larger ; 

And now he nears the mountain-hollow ; 

The flowery bank and little lake 
Now on his startled vision break— 

And Inez there.—He’s not awake— 

Ah, what a day this dream will follow ! 

But no—he surely is not dreaming. 

Another minute makes it clear. 

A scream, a rush, a burning tear 
From Inez’ cheek, dispel the fear 
That bliss like his is only seeming. 


LOVE MATCHES. 

FROM “ MONALDI.” 


(( A \ Y dear father,” said Rosalia, “ I 
| V l would that I could reason on this 
subject, but—indeed I cannot.” 

“.Strange! You hint not even an objec¬ 
tion, and yet— Do you think I overrate 
him ? ” 

“No ; he deserves all you say of him ; but 
yet—” 

“You would still reject him?” 

Rosalia was silent. 

“ If you esteem, you may certainly love ; 
nay, it will follow of course.” 

“ Did you always think so, sir ? ” 

“ Perhaps not. When I was young, I was 
no doubt fanciful, like others.” 

“ And yet you did not marry till past 
thirty.” 

“Well, child?” 

“ My mother died when I was too young 
to know her; but I have heard her character 


so often from yourself and others, that I have 
it now as fresh before me as if she had never 
been taken from us. Was she not mild and 
gentle ? ” 

“ As the dew of heaven.” 

“ And her mind?” 

“ The seat of every grace and virtue.’’ 

“ And her person, too, was beautiful?” 

“ Except yourself, I have never seen a 
creature so lovely.” 

“ And did she make you a good wife ?” 

Landi turned pale. “ Rosalia—my child 
—why remind me, by these cruel questions, 
of a loss which the whole world cannot 
repair ? ” 

“ She was then all you wished ; and yet I 
have heard that yours was a love ma'ch .” 

“No more,” cried Landi, averting his face. 
“You have conquered.” 






Julian Hawthorne. 

Essayest and Novelist. 


is often said that the chief thing which distinguishes this man 
or the other, is that he is “the son of his father.” In com¬ 
mon parlance, he travels on his father’s name. Not possessing 
any remarkable ability of his own, he yet gains a reputation 
by reason of the achievements of an illustrious sire. It is 
unfortunate for many persons that they are, in this sense, the 
sons of their fathers. Compared with the oue who has gone before, they 
sink into a kind of insignificance. Left to their own ability or genius, 
without being overshadowed by any family name, they would enjoy a 
better reputation. 

Iu the best sense of the term, Julian Hawthorne is the son of his 
father, the famous author of the “ Scarlet Letter,” “ Marble Faun,” and 
the “ House of Seven Gables.’.’ He has inherited somewhat of his 
father’s talent in the field of romance, although in chaste and elegant 
diction, combined with a certain richness of imagination and scholarly 
finish, he does not stand in the same category. 

Julian Hawthorne was born at Boston, June 22, 1846. His early 
life was largely passed in Europe, where his distinguished father was a 
resident for some years, having been appointed to an official position by 
the government of the United States. Young Hawthorne returned to 
this country, and from 1863 to T 868, was connected with classes in Har¬ 
vard University. Later he studied civil engineering at Dresden, and 
again returning to his native land, was employed in 1870 in the depart¬ 
ment of docks in New York City. Again he returned to Europe and 
spent there a number of years. 

All along his tastes ran in the direction of authorship, and he has 
become a successful writer. Several of his stories were published while 
he was abroad. His principal works are, “ Bresant,” 1873 ; “ Idolatry,” 
“ Saxon Studies,” “ Garth,” “ Archibald Malmaison,” “ The Laughing 
Mill,” “ Dust,” “ Fortune’s Fool,” 1883; “ Beatrix Randolph,” 1884; 
and “Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife’’ (a biography,) 1884. 

358 




JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 


359 


He visited India after the great famine, or rather during its progress, 
and wrote graphic descriptions of it for various periodicals. An extract 
from one of his contributions is furnished herewith. Later, his work 
embraced book reviews and miscellaneous articles for the “ North Amer¬ 
ican,” of Philadelphia. A man of wide observation, unusual facility in 
the use of the pen, always aiming at a high standard of morals, and 
infusing a strong intellectual element into all his productions, his place 
among our authors is conspicuous, and his works are fully appreciated. 


BETTER HOME LIFE FOR CHILDREN. 


E VER since Dickens we have known that 
a child fallen upon evil ways may be 
trained to pick pockets or crawl into 
windows for the benefit of burglars, and ever 
and anon we hear of more serious cases, like 
that of Jesse Pomeroy. There is no denying 
these things. Juvenile depravity, as our 
reformers say, is a sinister blot upon the fair 
face of our specious civilization. 

Nevertheless, there is in this nation a fund 
of common sense, which manifests itself more 
at some junctures than at others, which 
prompts us, as a rule, to look upon our juve¬ 
nile offenders as not fully and fatally responsi¬ 
ble for their iniquities. We think that they 
are more sinned against than sinning, and 
that positive criminality is an accomplish¬ 
ment which only men and women grown are 
capable of. 

We do not hang boy or girl murderers, and 
when boys and girls steal, or otherwise offend 
the majesty of technical law, we send them to 
reformatories. Unluckily many of these in¬ 
stitutions appear better calculated to turn 
out criminal beginners as finished criminals 
than to regenerate them. The putting together 
of two juvenile scamps is prone to result in 
the creation of as many deliberate rascals; 
the pair compare notes, lay plots, encourage 
and deprave each other, and come out worse 
than they went in. 

“Schools—more schools!” cry the news¬ 
papers, but it seems to me that if the cry 
were, “ Families—better families! ” we would 
be getting closer to the core of the matter. 


We would be bringing it nearer home to us in 
every sense of the word and putting ourselves 
in a position to control the predicament at 
first hand. 

This brings us to the counsel of the clergy¬ 
man to the children—that they should under 
all circumstances honor their father and 
mother, as the law of Sinai enjoins. It seems 
to me that no more puerile and perverse 
advice could be given. That the relation of 
parent is honorable and reverend no one 
would deny ; but that the special incumbents 
of the position in a given case may be utterly 
unworthy is quite plain. 

Suppose a child sees its father come in 
drunk and kick and beat its mother; is it to 
honor him ? Suppose it sees its mother enter¬ 
tain lovers while the father is absent at work; 
is it to reverence her? Suppose, in short, 
that the father and mother, or either of them, 
are criminal, vicious or degraded; shall the 
child look up to them as honorable persons 
merely because they have given the child 
birth ? The absurdity of the question is the 
answer to it. 

Were the child old enough to comprehend 
the distinction between reverencing the par¬ 
ental principle and reverencing the special 
examples of it which fate has given him, he 
might still be asked to honor father and 
mother; but, being a child, that is just what 
he is incapable of doing. And if he were to 
do it, what other logical result could be looked 
for than that he should proceed to imitate in 
his own conduct the practices of those he so 




JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 


.%0 

honors? No; the more lie honors I he parental 
relation the more severe must be his detesta¬ 
tion of those who so vilely dishonor it in 
themselves. 

The father and mother have control of the 
child from its birth ; and will any one pre¬ 
tend that they cannot, if they will, so train it 
and set it such an example of worthy conduct 
that anything but respect for them would be 
impossible and unthinkable to it? The reason 
our children are conspicuous the world over 
for impudence and disobedience is that their 
parents fail in their duty by them; they 
neglect them ; they spoil them; they by turns 
flatter and bully them; they send them to 
school and so imagine they can shift the 
responsibility from their own shoulders to 
those of the State; aud finally their conduct 
toward each other and in their various social 
and domestic relations, all of which come 
under the child’s keen and unforgetting obser¬ 
vation, is uniformly such as to arouse the 
child’s contempt for them. 

Accordingly, if we are to reform children— 


and that a reform is needed seems to be agreed 
on all sides—let us attempt it not by sending 
them to reformatories or to the public school 
even, but be radically reforming ourselves in 
our domestic manners, principles and ideas. 
We know that the family is the basis of the 
community and the State ; but we are all the 
while sinfully negligent to make it worthy of 
respect. 

No child brought up honestly in a good 
family ever disgraced its training: aud lack¬ 
ing that training, we have no right to expect 
any child to turn out well. That they often 
do turn out well in spite of the lack of it is 
great credit to them, and none to us. Provi¬ 
dence, or human nature, or circumstances, 
often treat us beyond our deserts. But let us 
not depend too long on these superior powere; 
i let us not tempt God, as Scripture has it. 
The teeth of the children of the eaters of 
sour grapes will be set on edge soouer or later. 
But purify and ennoble the family, and the 
republic w ill take care of itself. 


VICTIMS OF THE PLAGUE IN INDIA. 


I MET the local inspectors at the railway 
station leadiug a horse which they had 
kindly provided for me. We made a 
tour of half a dozen villages, alighting to 
investigate any thing that appeared suspicious. 
The first and largest of the villages rambles 
along on either side of a street scarcely wider 
than an ordinary footpath. The houses were 
mudhuts, whitewashed, or built of a kind of 
rubble, with the roofs of loose tiles common 
in India. Cocoa palms were numerous all 
over the region, and there were solid groves 
of them outside the settlements, coming down 
to the water's edge. 

The inhabitants for the most part, professed 
the Roman Catholic faith; crosses stood at 
every meeting of the ways, and priests in black 
gowns with wide-brimmed black hats stole 
past us occasionally. Of native inhabitants, 
however, we saw very few; those who were 
not in the graveyards had locked up their 


houses and fled the town. All the houses in 
which death or sickness had occurred had been 
already visited by the inspectors, emptied of 
their contents and disinfected. Those which 
were still occupied were kept, under strict 
supervision. One which had been occupied 
the day before was now found to be shut. 

The inspectors called up a native and 
questioned him. From his replies it appeared 
that there had been symptoms of the disease. 
We dismounted mid made an examination. 
Every door and window was fasteued, but by 
forcing open a blind we were able to see the 
interior. It was empty of life and of most 
of the movable furniture; but the floor of 
dried mud was strewn with the dead carcasses 
of rats. Undoubtedly the plague had been 
here. The house was marked for destruction, 
and we proceeded. 

Low, flat ledges of rock extended into the 
sea. A group of creatures in loin-cloths and 








JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 


361 


red turbans were squatting or moving about 
between two or three heaps of burning timber. 
These were marie of stout logs piled across 
one another to a height of about four feet. 
Half-way in the pile was placed a human 
body; it was not entirely covered by the 
wood, but a leg projected here, an arm there. 

The flames blazed up fiercely, their flicker¬ 


ing red tongues contrasting with the pale blue 
of the calm sea beyond. The smoke arose 
thick and unctious, and, fortunately was car¬ 
ried seaward. One of the pyres had burnt 
down to white ashes, and nothing recognizable 
as human remained. The people whose bodies 
were here burned had died in the segregation 
huts the night before. 


FIRST MONTHS IN ENGLAND. 

FROM “NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.” 

COPYRIGHT, TICKNOR & CO. 


W E are told, truly enough, that goodness 
does not always command good for¬ 
tune in this world, that just hopes 
are often deferred until it is too late to enjoy 
their realization, that fame and honor only 
discover a man after he has ceased to value 
them: and a large and respectable portion of 
modern fiction is occupied in impressing these 
sober lessons upon us. It is pleasant, never¬ 
theless, to believe that sometimes fate conde¬ 
scends not to be so unmitigable, and that a 
cloudy and gusty morning does occasionally 
brighten into a sunny and genial afternoon. 
Too long a course of apparently perverse and 
unreasonable accidents bewilders the mind, 
and the few and fleeting gleams of compensa¬ 
tion seem a mockery. 

One source of the perennial charm of Gold¬ 
smith’s “ Vicar of Wakefield ” is, I think, that 
in it the dividing line between the good and 
the bad fortune is so distinctly drawn. Just 
when a man has done his utmost, and all 
seems lost, Providence steps in, brings aid 
from the most unexpected quarter, and kin¬ 
dles everything into brighter and ever brighter 
prosperity. 

It was somewhat thus with Hawthorne, 
though the picture of his career is to be 
painted in a lower and more delicate tone 
than that of Goldsmith’s brilliant little can¬ 
vas. Up to the time of publication of “ The 


Scarlet Letter,” bis external circumstances 
had certainly been growing more and more 
unpromising; though, on the other hand, his 
inner domestic life had been full of the most 
vital and tender satisfactions. But the date 
of his first popular success in literature also 
marks the commencement of a worldly pros¬ 
perity which, though never by any means 
splendid (as we shall presently see), at any 
rate sufficed to allay the immediate anxiety 
about to-morrow’s bread-and-butter, from 
which he had not hitherto been free. The 
three American novels were written and pub¬ 
lished in rapid succession, and were reprinted 
in England, the first two being pirated; but 
for the last, “ The Blithedale Romance,” two 
hundred pounds were obtained from Messrs. 
Chapman and Hall for advance sheets. There 
is every reason to believe that during the 
ensuing years other romances would have been 
written; and perhaps they would have been 
as good as, or better than, those that went 
before. But it is vain to sjieculate as to what 
might have been. Tho production of such 
books as“The Scarlet Letter ” and “The House 
of Seven Gables” cannot go on indefinitely; 
though they soem to be easily written when 
they are written, they represent a great deal of 
the writer’s spiritual existence. At all events, 
it is better to write too little than too much. 





Richard Harding Davis. 

Author of “ The Exiles, and Other Stories.” 


HOEVER lias read that pleasing book entitled, “ The West 
from a Car Window,” with its piquant observations and 
graphic descriptions, will obtain a very good idea of the per¬ 
sonality of the author. He is robust, vigorous, well suited 
to be what may be called a travelling journalist, and as a 
newspaper correspondent in the Spanish-American war was 
not so anxious to make out a captivating story as he was to describe the 
exact situation and avoid exaggeration. 

Mr. Davis is more than this. He is a successful writer of fiction. 
His work is well studied, is carefully done, is never on a low level, is 
characterized by dramatic power. He knows how to deal with what the 
novelist would call situations, and can make skillful use of incidents and 
events. His outlines, his style, his modes of thought and expression, 
are formed from the best models. 

He may be said to have inherited a talent for authorship, being the 
sou of L. Clark Davis, a successful editor, and Rebecca Harding Davis, 
a story writer favorably known to the reading public. Philadelphia is 
his native place, and 1864 the year of his birth. From Lehigh University, 
where he pursued his studies three years, he went to Johns Hopkins, 
remaining there one year. 

Having entered journalism he was connected successively with sev¬ 
eral newspapers in Philadelphia, including the “ Telegraph,” “ Press ” 
and “ Record.” His most noted work in this line was his “ Van Bibber 
Sketches,” which were contributed to the New York “ Evening Sun.” 
His story entitled “ Gallagher ” describes a certain phase of “ life about 
town,” and evinces his thorough study of human nature and ability to 
depict the character of the easy going hale-fellow-well-met, who is well 
known in haunts of vice and pleasure. “ Gallagher,” added materially 
to the reputation of the author. 

He has also written a book of travels in England, depicting in an 

original manner the singular aspects of English manners and customs. 

362 




RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 


363 


During the war between Greece and Turkey he contributed able accounts 
of its progress to the “ London Times.” 

A manly vigor runs through all of Mr. Davis’ writings. He is no 
friend to the tame and commonplace. Nor does he need to have any 
explanation of what is meant by humor. While giving close attention 
to details, his stories do not tarry; the narrative is up and off, and takes 
the reader along with it. 


THE TURKS ROUTED AT VELESTINO. 


T HERE is a round hill to the north of the 
town, standing quite alone. It has a 
perfectly flat top, and its pioportions 
are exactly those of a giant bucket set upside 
down. We found the upper end of this bucket 
crowded with six mountain guns, and the bat¬ 
tery was protesting violently. When it had 
uttered its protest the guns would throw them¬ 
selves into the air, and would turn a complete 
somersault, as though with delight at the mis¬ 
chief they had done, or would whirl them¬ 
selves upon one wheel while the other spun 
rapidly in the air. 

Lieutenant Ambroise Frantzis was in com¬ 
mand of the battery. It was he who had re¬ 
pulsed a Turkish cavalry charge of a few days 
before with this same battery, and he was as 
polite and calm and pleased with his excitable 
little guns as though they weighed a hundred 
tons each, and could send a shell nine miles 
instead of a scant three thousand yards. 

From this hill there was nothing to be seen 
of the Turks but puffs of smoke in the plain, 
so we slid down its steep side and clambered 
up the ridges in front of us, where long rows 
of infantry were outlined against the sky. A 
bare-headed peasant boy, in dirty white petti¬ 
coats, who seemed to consider the engagement 
in the light of an entertainment, came danc¬ 
ing down the hill to show us the foot-paths 
that led up the different ridges. He was one 
of the villagers who had not run away or who 
was not farther up the valley, taking pot-shots 
at the hated Turks from behind rocks. He 
talked and laughed as he ran ahead of us, 
with many gestures, and imitated mockingly 
the sound of the bullets, and warned us with 


grave solicitude to be careful, as though he 
was in no possible danger himself. 

I saw him a great many times during the 
day, guiding company after company through 
the gulleys, and showing them how to advance 
protected by the slope of the hills—a self-con¬ 
stituted scout—and with much the manner of 
a landed proprietor escorting visitors over his 
estate. And whenever a shell struck near 
him, he would run and retrieve the pieces, 
and lay them triumphantly at the feet of the 
officers, like a little fox-terrier that has scamp¬ 
ered after a stick and brought it to his mas¬ 
ter’s feet. 

The men in the first trench—which was the 
only one which gave us a clear view of the 
Turkish forces—received us with cheerful nods 
and scraped out a place beside them, and cov¬ 
ered the moist earth with their blankets. They 
exhibited a sort of childish pride and satisfac¬ 
tion at being under fire; and so far from show¬ 
ing the nervousness and shattered morals 
which had been prophesied for them after the 
rout at Larissa, they appeared on the contrary 
more than content. 

As the day wore on, they became even lan¬ 
guidly bored with it all, and some sang in a 
low crooning tone, and others, in spite of the 
incessant rush of the shells, dozed in the full 
glare of the sun, and still others lay humped 
and crouched against the earthworks when 
the projectiles tore up the earth on the hill 
behind us. But when the order came to fire, 
they would scramble to their knees with alac¬ 
rity, and many of them would continue firing 
on their own account, long after the whistle 
had sounded to cease firing. Some of the offi- 




364 


RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 


cers walked up and down, and directed the 
men in the trenches at their feet with the air 
of judges or time-keepers at an athletic meet¬ 
ing, who were observing a tug-of-war. 

Others exposed themselves in what looked 
like a spirit of braggadocio, for they moved 
with a swagger and called upon the men to 
notice how brave they were. Other officers 
rose only when it was necessary to observe 
some fresh movement upon the part of the 
enemy, and they did this without the least 
haste and simply as a part of their work, and 
regarded the bullets that instantly beset them 
as little as if they were so many flies. 

A Turkish soldier dragging a mule loaded 
with ammunition had appeared a quarter of a 
mile below us, and at sight of him the soldiers 
at once recognized that there was something 
tangible, something that could show some sign 
if they hit it. The white smoke they had 
aimed at before had floated away, but at the 
sight of this individual soldier the entire line 
ceased firing at the enemy’s trenches, and 
opened on the unhappy Turk and his mule, 
and as the dust spurted up at points nearer 
and nearer to where he stood, their excitement 
increased in proportion, until, when he gave 
the mule a kick and ran for his life, there was 
a triumphant shout all along the line, as 
though they had repulsed a regiment. That 
one man and his load of ammunition had for 
a few minutes represented to them the entire 
Turkish army. 

As the Turks suddenly appeared below us, 
clambering out of a long gully, it was as 


though they had sprung from the earth. On 
the moment the smiling landscape changed 
like a scene at a theatre, and hundreds of men 
rose from what had apparently been deserted 
hilltops, and stood outlined in silhoutte against 
the sunset, waves of smoke ran from crest to 
crest, spitting flashes of red flame, and men’s 
voices shrieked and shouted, and the Turkish 
shells raced each other so fiercely that they 
beat out the air until it groaned. It had 
come up so suddenly that it was like two dogs 
springing at each other’s throats, and, in a 
greater degree, it had something of the sound 
of two wild animal struggling for life. 

Volley answered volley as though with per¬ 
sonal hate—one crashing in upon the roll of 
the other, or beating it out of recognition with 
the bursting roar of heavy cannon ; and to 
those who could do nothing but lie face down¬ 
wards and listen to it, it seemed as though 
they had been caught in a burning building, 
and that the walls and roof were falling in on 
them. 

I do not know how long it lasted—probably 
not more than five minutes, although it seemed 
much longer than that—but finally the death- 
grip seemed to relax, the volleys came brok¬ 
enly, like a man panting for breath, the bul¬ 
lets ceased to sound with the hiss of escaping 
steam, and rustled aimlessly by, and from hill¬ 
top to hilltop the officers’ whistles sounded as 
though a sportsman were calling off his dogs. 
The Turks had been driven back, and for the 
fourth day the Greeks had held Velestino suc¬ 
cessfully against them. 




Sarah Jane Lippincott. 

The Well Known “Grace Greenwood.” 


is a fortunate thing that there are authors specially qualified to 
write books for children, to amuse them with tales that have a 
good moral, and thus in a very pleasant manner convey to their 
young minds lessons that will abide with them all their lives. 
In this field of literary work Mrs. Lippincott is pr-eeminent. 
For a long time she has been in sweet and sympathetic contact 
with the child-mind of our country. Her periodical, entitled “ The Little 
Pilgrim,” has brought sunshine into thousands of homes. 

Mrs. Lippincott, whose original name was Clarke, was born in Pom- 
pey, Onondaga County, New York, September 23, 1823. Much of her 
childhood was passed in Rochester, New York, but in 1842 she removed 
with her father to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, and in 1853 married Lean- 
der K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia. She published occasional verses at an 
early age under her own name, and in 1844 her first prose publications 
appeared in the New York “ Mirror,” under the pen-name of “ Grace Green¬ 
wood,” which she has since retained. For a number of years she edited 
in Philadelphia the “ Little Pilgrim,” a high-class juvenile monthly maga¬ 
zine, which attained a wide popularity. 

She is also the author of many addresses and lectures, and has been 
largely connected with periodical literature as editor, contributor and news¬ 
paper correspondent. “ Ariadne ” is probably the best known of her 
poems. Among her books are “ Greenwood Leaves,” “ History of My 
Pets,” “ Poems,” “ Recollections of My Childhood,” “ Haps and Mishaps 
of a Tour in Europe,” “ Merrie England,” “ Forest Tragedy and Other 
Tales,” “ Stories and Legends of Travel,” “ History for Children,” 
“ Stories from Famous Ballads,” ‘‘ Stories of Many Lands,” “ Stories and 
Sights in France and Italy,” “ Records of Five Years,” “ New Life in New 
Lands,” and “ Life of Queen Victoria.” 

Mrs: Lippincott’s writings give evidence of a sunny temperament, a 
healthy mind, a happy faculty of looking on the bright side of life, and 
ability to interest not merely the little people, but “ children of an older 

365 




366 


SARAH JANE UPPINCOTT. 


growth.” Fine thoughts are expressed with singular beauty and sim¬ 
plicity. 

Although she has lived abroad a great deal, she never lost her love 
for her native land. She was one of the first women who essayed the 
onerous task of correspondent at Washington, where much of her time 
has been spent. During our Civil War she was a warm friend of the 
soldiers, and by reading and giving lectures in camps and hospitals 
endeared herself to thousands who have since cherished her memory. 
President Lincoln was accustomed to speak of her as “ Grace Greenwood, 
the Patriot.” 


BABY FLORENCE IN HER BATH-TUB. 

FROM “RECORDS OF FIVE YEARS.” 

COPYRIGHT, HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 


I T is the first morning of the eldest married 
sister’s first visit home, with her first 
baby; and the first baby, having slept 
late after its journey, is about to take its first 
bath in the old house. 

“ Well, I declare, if here isn’t mother, for¬ 
getting her dairy, and cousin Nellie, too, who 
must have left poor Ned all to himself in the 
garden, lonely and disconsolate, and I am 
torn from my books, and Sophie from her 
flowers, and all for the sake of seeing a nine- 
month-old baby kicking about in a bath-tub! 
What simpletons we are! ” 

Thus Miss Annie, the proude layde of the 
family ; handsome, haughty, with perilous pro¬ 
clivities toward grand socialistic theories, 
transcendentalism, and general strong-mind¬ 
edness ; pledged by many a saucy vow to a 
life of single dignity and freedom, given to 
studies artistic, sesthetic, philosophic and ethi¬ 
cal ; a student of Plato, an absorber of Emer¬ 
son, and exalter of her sex, a contemner of its 
natural enemies. 

“Simpletons, are we?” cries pretty Elinor 
Lee, aunt of the baby on the other side, and 
“ Cousin Nellie” by love’s courtesy, now kneel¬ 
ing close by the bath-tub, and receiving on her 
sunny braids a liberal baptism from the pure, 
plashing hands of babyhood—“simpletons, 
indeed! Did I not once see thee, O Pallas, 
Athene, standing rapt before a copy of the 


* Crouching Venus ? ’ and this is a sight a 
thousand times more beautiful; for here we 
have color, action, radiant life, and such grace 
as the divinest sculptors of Greece were never 
able to entrance in marble. Just look at 
these white, dimpled shoulders, every dimple 
holding a tiny, sparkling drop—these rosy, 
plashing feet and hands—this laughing, roguish 
face—these eyes, bright and blue and deep as 
lakes of fairy-land—these ears like dainty 
sea-shells — these locks of gold, dripping 
diamonds—and tell me what cherub of Titian, 
what Cupid of Greuze, was ever half so lovely. 
I say, too, that Raphael himself would have 
jumped at the chance of painting Louise, as 
she sits there, towel in hand, in all the serene 
pride and chastened dignity of young mater¬ 
nity—of painting her as Madonna.” 

“Why, Cousin Nellie is getting poetical for 
once, over a baby in a bath-tub! ” 

“Well Sophie, isn’t it a subject to inspire 
real poets, to call out and yet humble the 
genius of painters and sculptors ? Isn’t it an 
object for the reverence of ‘ a glorious human 
creature’—such a pure and perfect form of 
physical life, such a starry little soul, fresh 
from the hands of God? If your Plato 
teaches otherwise, Cousin Annie, I’m glad 
I’ve no acquaintance with that distinguished 
heathen gentleman ; if your Carlyle, with his 
‘ soul above buttons ’ and babies, would growl, 





SARAH JANE 

and your Emerson smile icily at the sight 
away with them! ” 

“ Why, Nellie, you goose, Carlyle is ‘ a man 
and a brother,’ in spite of his ‘Latter-day 
Pamphlets,’ and no ogre. I believe he is 
very well disposed toward babies in general; 
while Emerson is as tender as he is great. 
Have you forgotten his ‘ Threnody,’ in which 
the sob of a mortal’s sorrow rises and swells 
into an immortal’s paen? I see that baby is 
very lovely: I think that Louise may well be 
proud of her. It’s a pity that she must grow 
up into conventionalities and all that—per¬ 
haps become some man’s plaything, or slave.” 

“ O don't, sister!—‘sufficient for the day is 
the worriment thereof.’ But I think you and 
Nellie are mistaken about the pride. I am 
conscious of no such feeling in regard to my 
little Florence, but only of joy, gratitude, 
infinite tenderness, and solicitude.” 

Thus the young mother—for the first time 
speaking, but not turning her eyes from the 
bath-tub. 

“ Ah, coz, it won’t go! Young mothers 
are the proudest of living creatures. The 
sweetest and saintliest among you have a sort 
of subdued exultation, a meek assumption, an 
adorable insolence, toward the whole unmar¬ 
ried and childless world. I have never seen 
anything like it elsewhere.” 

“ I have, in a bantam Biddy, parading her 
first brood in the hen-yard, or a youthful duck, 
leading her first little downy flock to the water.” 

“Ha, blasphemer! are you there?” cries 
Miss Nellie, with a bright smile, and a brighter 
blush. Blasphemer’s other name is a tolerably 
good one—Edward Norton—though he is 
oftenest called “Our Ned.” He is the sole 
male representative of a wealthy old New 
England family—the pride and darling of 
four pretty sisters, “ the only son of his mother, 
and she a widow,” who adores him—“ a likely 
youth, just twenty-one,” handsome, brilliant, 
and standing six feet high in his stockings. 
Yet, in spite of all these unfavorable circum¬ 
stances, he is a very good sort of a fellow. 
He is just home from the model college of the 
Commonwealth, where he learned to smoke, 
and, I blush to say, has a cigar in hand at 
this moment, just as he has been summoned 


LIPPINCOTT. 367 

from the garden by his pet sister, Kate, half¬ 
wild w ith delight and excitement. With him 
comes a brother, according to the law, and 
after the spirit—a young, slender, fair-haired 
man, but with an indescribable something of 
paternal importance about him. He is the 
other proprietor of baby, and steps forward 
with a laugh and a “ Heh, my little water- 
nymph, my Iris! ” and by the bath-tub kneel¬ 
ing, catches a moist kiss from smiling baby 
lips, and a sudden wilting shower on shirt- 
front and collar, from moister baby hands. 

Young collegian pauses on the threshold, 
essaying to look lofty and sarcastic for a 
moment. Then his eye rests on Nellie Lee’s 
blushing face, on the red, smiling lips, the 
braids of gold, sprinkled with shining drops— 
meets those sweet, shy eyes, and a sudden mys¬ 
terious feeling, soft and vague and tender, 
floods his gay young heart. He looks at baby 
again, “ ’Tis a pretty sight, upon my word! 
Let me throw away my cigar before I come 
nearer; it is incense too profane for such pure 
rites. Now give me a peep at Dian-the less! 
How the little witch revels in the water! A 
small Undine. Jolly, isn’t it, baby? Why, 
Louise, I did not know that Floy was so 
lovely, such a perfect little creature. How 
fair she is? Why, her flesh, where it is not 
rosy, is of the pure, translucent whiteness of 
a water-lily.” 

No response to this tribute, for baby has 
been in the water more than long enough, 
and must be taken out, willy, nilly. Decidedly 
nilly it proves; baby proceeds to demonstrate 
that she is not altogether cherubic, by kick¬ 
ing and screaming lustily, and striking out 
frantically with her little, dripping hands, 
but Madonna wraps her in soft linen, rolls 
her and pats her, till she grows good and 
merry again, and laughs through her pretty 
tears. 

But the brief storm has been enough to 
clear the nursery of all save grandmamma 
and Auntie Kate, who draw nearer to witness 
the process of drying and dressing. Then the 
light golden locks are brushed and twined into 
tendril-like curls, and lo! the beautiful labor 
of love is finished. Baby is bathed and dressed 
for the day. 



William Taylor Adams. 

Whose Pen-name is “ Oliver Optic.” 



. ADAMS had a gift in one line of authorship. Of the hun¬ 
dred volumes he published, all, with two or three exceptions, 
were written for young people. Bach narrative was well 
rounded and complete, and if it failed to impart some good 
lesson that would be of advantage in the reader’s after life, 
the work did not realize the author’s aim and intention. He 
meant to both entertain and instruct his multitude of young readers, and 
the high moral tone and wholesome influence of his works Have never 
been questioned. 

His industry almost surpasses conception. It is difficult to realize 
that such an amount of literary labor could have been crowded into one 
life. We have an object lesson, plain and undeniable, of what can be 
accomplished by patient, continuous effort. In addition to the many 
volumes that issued from Mr. Adams’ prolfic pen he wrote hundreds of 
stories and sketches for papers and periodicals, all of which bore the im¬ 
press of his peculiar gifts and genius as a story teller. 

He was born at Medway, Massachusetss, July 30, 1822, and was for 
many years a teacher in Boston. Deeply interested in the education of 
the young, he was for a long time a member of the school board of Dor¬ 
chester, and made a study of his chosen profession. In 1850 he resolved 
to devote his whole attention to authorship. 

He began the publication of “Our Little Ones” in 1881, and after¬ 
ward conducted “ Oliver Optic’s Magazine for Boys and Girls.” His 
first work, which was entitled “ Hatchie, the Guardian Slave,” was pub¬ 
lished in 1853. It had a very encouraging sale, and was rapidly followed 
by other works which fully sustained the reputation the author had 
already gained. 

Some of his best stories are “ Starry Flag; ” “ Yacht Club; ’ 
Ocean Born ; ” “ Onward and Upward ; ” “ Young America Abroad ; ’ 
Great Western ; ” “The Boat Club ; ’’ and “ Riverdale Series ” of six 
volumes. Mr. Adams died in March, 1897. 

368 








WILLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS. 


369 


A YACHTSMAN’S SPEECH. 

FROM “OCEAN-BORN.” 


“ T AM an old salt, called upon to speak for 

| that saline institution without any— 
without any—any— (takes from his breast 
pocket a paper, which he unfolds, glancing ner¬ 
vously at the ivriting upon it) preparation ; I 
find my stomach—my stomach-r-no— (takes 
the paper from his pocket and glances at it) my 
heart—I find my heart too full for utterance. 
I am not the first old salt to whom the atten¬ 
tion of the people has been directed. There 
was another old salt, sir, first in war—first in 
—in—( consulting the paper) peace—first in 
peace, and first in the arts of seamanship 
and navigation. 

“Proudly I point to that first old salt in 
the history of—the history of—of ( the paper) 
the United States. You know him well, Mr. 
Commodore. His name was George—George 
—his name was George—George (the paper) 
Washington—George Washington. He stood 
at the helm of the ship of—the ship of—of— 
(thepaper) state; the ship of state, Mr. Com¬ 
modore. In other words, sir, he took his 
trick at the wheel. He navigated that ship 
as no other man could navigate her, sir. He 
knew when to take a reef in the skysail-boom ! 
He knew when to top up the flukes of the 
main-royal mudhook! He knew just how 
much the foreto’-bobbin-stay would bear, and 
he didn’t burst it! 

“He sailed that ship of state with the jib- 
stay fast to the bowline-hitch, with the jib- 
tack swelling in the breeze, and the sky¬ 
scrapers hauled taut on the weather-staysail 
sheets! He kept her head south east by no’th, 
and the grand old craft bowled along like a 
white cloud through the azure of the canopy 
below— Below ? ( the paper) above him ; the 
canopy above him, Mr. Commodore; or like 
the ship of the desert over the burning sands 
of the straits of Magellan ! 

“I was speaking of the ship of state, that 
gallant old craft, lifting here foreto’-gallant 
cutwater to the breezes wish her main royal 
hatchway braced sharp up, and the bilge 
water flying like corn in a parcher. I was 
24 


speaking of the skipper of that craft; of that 
old salt George—George—George—I men¬ 
tioned the name—George— (the paper) — 
Washington ; George Washington. 

“ He saved the ship! With his little hatchet 
he cut away the booms, bobstays, bowsprits, 
beckets, bo’s’ns, and buntlines, and brought 
the old craft safe into Portland—Portland?— 
into—into (the paper) port; into port. But, 
Mr. Commodore, I was about to allude to 
other distinguished old salts, who have honored 
the profession to which I belong. 

“ There was one down in Tennessee, who 
navigated that same old ship of state. He 
was a tough specimen of the old salt. He 
kept his backstay braced sharp up into the 
eye of the wind. He was tough as the foreto’- 
mainmast. of a man-of-war ! Sometimes they 
called him Old—Old Hickups—Hickups? 
(the paper) Old Hickory ! They called him 
so, Mr. Commodore, because he was fond of 
peanuts! His name was Andrew—Andrew— 
Andrew—Andrew Johnson! His name was 
Andrew Johnson, Mr. Commodore. (The 
paper) Jackson, Mr. Commodore! His name 
was Andrew Jackson ! He was the captain 
of his ship, sir. When he was sick, he knew 
enough to heave to, sir. When South Caro¬ 
lina wanted to nullify, he knew enough to lie to, 
sir. In this respect, sir, he was different from 
George—George ( the paper) Washington; 
George Washington, sir. 

“ History solemnly records that G. W. 
couldn’t tell a—a—tell a—a—a— (the paper) 
a lie ; and Andrew Jackson could lie to, and 
pour his booming guns into the nullifiers, like 
a brave old salt as he was. But, Mr. Com¬ 
modore, time would fail me, and your patience 
give out, before I could allude to all the old 
salts to whose honored profession I belong; 
and I can only mention General Phil—Phil 
—General—Phil—Phil— (the paper) Sheri¬ 
dan ; Phil Sheridan, who rode at anchor at 
Winchester down to the battle-field, and made 
a good run of it.” 



Thomas Dunn English. 

Author of “ Ben Bolt.” 

HOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, physician, lawyer, Member of Con¬ 
gress, poet and novelist, evidently a many-sided man, was born 
in Philadelphia, June 29, 1819. He received the degree of M. 
D. from the University of Pennsylvania in 1839, was called to the 
bar in 1842, and subsequently was a practicing physician at 
Fort Lee, New Jersey. He was for years devoted to literary 
pursuits as author, editor, and contributor to various periodicals. His 
vigorous poem, “The Gallows-Goers,” made a great sensation about 1845, 
when capital punishment was an exciting subject of popular debate. A 
selection from his historical poems was published in New York in 1880 
under the title of “ American Ballads.” 

“ Ben Bolt ” was written in 1842. Its author was visiting in New 
York, and N. P. Willis who, with George P. Morris, was editing the 
“ New Mirror,” asked him for a gratuitous contribution, and suggested 
that it be a sea-song. Mr. English promised one, and on returning to 
his home attempted to make good his word. Only one line that smacked 
of the sea came at his bidding ; but at a white heat he composed the five 
stanzas of “ Ben Bolt,” as it now reads, betraying the original intention 
in the last line of the last stanza. 

Within a year the poem had been reprinted in England, and its 
author then thought it might be a still greater favorite if set to appro¬ 
priate music. One musical composer wrote an air for it, which was 
never printed, and Mr. English wrote one himself which, although printed, 
had no sale. It was written entirely for the black keys. In 1848 a play 
was brought out in Pittsburg, Pa., called “ The Battle of Buena Vista,” 
in which the song of “Ben Bolt ” was introduced. The air to which the 
words were sung became popular, and although the drama died, the song 
survived. 

A music publisher of Cincinnati obtained the copyright, and it was 
the business success of his career. In theatres, concert rooms, minstrel 

shows and private parlors nothing was heard but “ Ben Bolt.” It was 

370 






THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 


371 


ground on Land-organs, whistled in the streets, and Sweet Alice became 
the pet of the public. A steamboat in the West, and a ship in the East, 
were named after her. The steamer was blown up, and the ship was 
wrecked, but Alice floated safely in the fragile bark of song. The poem 
went abroad and obtained great popularity in England. The streets of 
London were flooded with parodies, answers, and imitations, printed on 
broadsides, and sung and sold by curbstone minstrels. A play was writ¬ 
ten there based upon it, and as late as 1877 a serial novel ran through a 
Loudon weekly paper of note, in which the memories evoked by the sing, 
ing of “ Ben Bolt ’’ played a prominent part. 

Mr. English was elected a member of the New Jersey State Legis¬ 
lature in 1863 an d 1864. In 1890 he was elected a Representative from 
the Sixth Congressional district of New Jersey to the Fifty-Second Con¬ 
gress, avid afterward was several times returned to Congress by the same 
constituency. Died April 1, 1902. 


BEN BOLT. 


ON’T you remember sweet Alice, Ben 
Bolt? 

Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, 
Who wept with delight when you gave her a 
smile, 

And trembled with fear at your frown ? 

In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben 
Bolt, 

In a corner obscure and alone, 

They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, 
And Alice lies under the stone. 

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 

Which stood at the foot of the hill, 
Together we’ve lain in the noonday shade, 
And listened to Appleton’s mill: 

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 
The rafters have tumbled in, 

And a quiet which crawls round the walls as 
you gaze, 

Has followed the olden din. 

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 

At the edge of the pathless wood, 

And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, 
Which nigh by the door-step stood ? 

The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, 

The tree you would seek in vain ; 


And where once the lords of the forest 
waved, 

Grow grass and the golden grain. 

And don’t you remember the school, Ben 
Bolt, 

With the master so cruel and grim, 

And the shaded nook in the running brook, 

Where the children went to swim ? 

Grass grows on the master’s grave, Ben 
Bolt, 

The spring of the brook is dry, 

And of all the boys that were schoolmates 
then, 

There are only you and I. 

There is change in the things I loved, Ben 
Bolt, 

They have changed from the old to the 
new; 

But I feel in the core of my spirit the 
truth, 

There never was change in you. 

Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, 

Since first we were friends—yet I hail 

Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a 
truth, 

Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale. 





372 


THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 


JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW. 


T HE journals this morning are full of a 
tale 

Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail; 
And people are called on to note and admire 
How a hundred or more, through the smoke- 
cloud and fire, 

Were borne from all peril to limbs and to 
lives — 

Mothers saved to their children, and husbands 
to wives, 

But of him who performed such a notable 
deed 

Quite little the journalist gives us to read. 

In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold, 
There is nothing except, in few syllables told, 
His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew. 

Away in Nevada — they don’t tell us where, 
Nor does it much matter—a railway is there. 
Which winds in and out through the cloven 
ravines, 

With glimpses at times of the wildest of 
scenes— 

Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread, 
Now shooting past cliffs that impend o’er the 
head, 

Now plunging some black-throated tunnel 
within, 

Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and 
din; 

And ran everyday with its train o’er the road, 
An engine that steadily dragged on its load, 
And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew. 

With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the 
train, 

While the sparks fell around and behind him 
like rain, 

As he came to a spot where a curve to the 
right 

Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tun¬ 
nel in sight, 

And peering ahead with a far-seeing ken, 

Felt a quick sense of danger come over him 
then. 

Was a train on the track? No! A peril as 
dire— 

The further extreme of the tunnel on fire! 


And the volume of smoke as it gathered and 
rolled, 

Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored 
fold, 

But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew. 

Beat faster his heart, though its current stood 
still, 

And his nerves felt ajar but no tremulous thrill 

And his eyes keenly gleamed through their 
partly closed lashes, 

And his lips—not with fear—took the color 
of ashes. 

If we falter, these people behind us are dead! 

So close the doors, fireman—we’ll send her 
ahead ! 

Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings! 

Open the throttle-valve! Give her her wings!” 

Shouted he from his post in the engineer’s room, 

Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom, 
This man they call Johnny Bartholomew. 

Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his 
breath, 

On, on through the Vale of the Shadow 
of Death, 

On, on through that horrible cavern of hell, 

Through flames that arose and through 
timbers that fell, 

Through the eddying smoke and the serpents 
of fire 

That writhed and that hissed in their anguish 
and ire, 

With a rush and a roar like a wild tempest’s 
blast, 

To the free air beyond them in safety they 
passed! 

While the clang of the bell and the steam 
pipe’s shrill yell, 

Told the joy at escape from that underground 
hell 

Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew. 

Did the passengers get up a service of plate? 

Did some oily-tongued orator at the man 
prate ? 

Women kiss him ? Young children cling fast 
to his knees? 



THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 


37 3 


Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers 
squeeze ? 

And where was he born ? Is he handsome ? 
Has he 

A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee ? 

Is he young ? Is he old ? Is he tall ? Is he 
short ? 


Well, ladies the journals tell naught of the 
sort, 

And all that they give us about him to-day, 
After telling the tale in a commonplace 
way, 

Is—the man’s name is Johnny Bartholo¬ 
mew. 


THE CHARGE BY THE FORD. 


E IGHTY and nine with their captain, 
Rode on the enemy’s track. 

Rode in the gray of the morning— 
Nine of the ninety came back. 

Slow rose the mist from the river, 
Lighter each moment the way ; 
Careless and tearless and fearless 
Galloped they on the fray. 

Singing in tune, how the scabbards, 
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang. 
Clinked as the men rose in saddle, 

Fell as they sank with a clang. 

What is it moves by the river, 

Jaded and weary and weak ? 
Gray-backs—a cross on their banner— 
Yonder the foe whom they seek. 

Silence! They see not, they hear not, 
Tarrying there by the marge: 
Forward ! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop ! 
Charge! like a hurricane, charge, 

Ah ! ’twas a man-trap infernal— 

Fire like the deep pit of hell! 


Volley on volley to meet them, 

Mixed with the gray rebel’s yell. 

Ninety had ridden to battle, 

Tracing the enemy’s track— 

Ninety had ridden to battle ; 

Nine of the ninety came back. 

Honor the name of the ninety; 

Honor the heroes who came 
Scatheless lrom five hundred muskets, 
Safe from the lead-bearing flame. 

Eighty and one of the troopers 
Lie on the field of the slain— 

Lie on the red field of honor— 

Honor the nine who remain ? 

Cold are the dead there, and gory, 

There where their life-blood was spilt; 
Back come the living, each sabre 
Red from the point to the hilt. 

Up with three cheers and a tiger! 

Let the flags wave as they come! 

Give them the blare af the trumpet! 

Give them the roll of the drum ! 


THE BROWNS. 


M ARGERY Brown in her arm-chair sits. 
Stitching and darning and patching 
for life ; 

The good woman seems at the end of her wits— 
No end to the toil of a mother and wife. 
She’d like to be far from her home on the farm ; 
She sighs for the pleasure and rush of the 
’ town; 

She counts every stitch, and she longs to be 
rich— 

Pity the troubles of Margery Brown. 


Here is a coat with a rent in the sleeve ; 

Here is a sock with a hole in the toe ; 

This wants a patch on the arm, you perceive; 

That must be darned at once, whether or no. 

It is patching and darning and sewing of 
rents, 

From dawn till the moment the sun goes 
down; 

And all from those boys full of mischief and 
noise— 

Pity the troubles of Margery Brown. 







374 


THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 


Timothy Brown starts a-field in the morn, 

To follow the plough-tale for manyan hour ; 

The drought has been curling the leaves of 
the corn, 

And stirring the ground meets the lack of 
a shower. 

From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun, 
Through the terrible rays that pour fiercely 
down, 

He treads in his toil o’er the parched dusty 
soil— 

Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown. 

He reaches his home at the close of the day— 
The oven wood has to be chopped for next 
morn ; 

The horse must be given his oats and his hay, 
The cows have their mash, and the pigs get 
their corn. 

He would like for a moment to glance at 
the news 

In the journal that yesterday came from 
the town ; 

But when he has fed, he must hurry to bed— 
Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown. 

Riding along is the rich Hector Graeme, 

With his wife by his side; both are sickly 
and wan; 


They have not a child left to carry their 
name— 

The one that they owned, to the church¬ 
yard has gone. 

He looks at the boys perched aloft on the 
fence. 

She sees the stout wife in the skimpest of 
gowns— 

“ These have children and health!” and the 
people of wealth 

Envy the lot of those fortunate Browns. 

I think that the world is made up of just like 
this— 

Discontent gnaws the higher as well as the 
low; 

The Browns think the Graemes reach the 
summit of bliss ; 

The Graemes think the Browns are exempt 
from all woe. 

We are all Browns or Graemes as our stations 
may be; 

We look to our crosses much more than 
our crowns; 

And while Brown and his wife thus repine at 
their life, 

Graemes pass in their coaches and envy the 
Browns. 




Francis Richard Stockton. 

h umorous Novelist. 


STOCKTON (or more familiarly, Frank Stockton) affords a 
good example of the success which usually attends the efforts 
of the man who has talent for a particular line of endeavor 
and finds what it is. One can hardly think of him except as 
a humorous story-writer, whose quaint conceptions, original 
plots and charming manner of executing them, place him 
among the foremost of that number of authors whose aim is to please the 
public. Even Mr. Stockton’s absurdities only add to his reputation and 
increase his popularity. 

He was born in Philadelphia, April 5 > 1834- He obtained such edu¬ 
cation as he could in the High School of that city, but in his earlier days 
does not appear to have had ambition as an author. It is not likely that 
he thought of himself as a successful novelist, perhaps for the reason 
that his taste was for designing and illustration. For a while he was 
connected with the humorous publication, “ Vanity Fair,” at the same 
time doing work as an illustrator for other periodicals. 

Meanwhile, he had engaged in journalistic work, had found the use 
of his pen, and had become aware of his ability to write stories and 
sketches that were readable and interesting. He abandoned engraving 
altogether in 1872, and connected himself with the New York 11 Hearth¬ 
stone ” as an editorial writer. From this he joined the staff of “Scrib¬ 
ner’s Monthly,” which afterward became the “Century Magazine.” 
“St. Nicholas Magazine” was established in 1873, and Mr. Stockton 
became its assistant editor, his coadjutor being Mary Mapes Dodge, 
whose delightful writings for children have gained for her a wide reputa¬ 
tion, and charmed the world of little people. 

After 1880, Mr. Stockton’s literary work was mainly confined to 
works of fiction, in all of which he exhibited his peculiar talent that 
made him one of the best known writers of the day. One must not 
expect any wonderful flights of imagination, or brilliant displays of 

rhetoric, or long and doleful essays on moral questions, but, understanding 

37 5 





376 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 


that the author is more a humorous writer than anything else, the way 
is prepared to thoroughly enjoy his productions. 

One is almost led to inquire whether he ever lays down his pen. For 
many years there has been a constant succession of books with his name 
upon the title page ; at least one a year, and sometimes two or three In 
1869 he published a collection of tales for children, entitled, “Ting-a- 
Ling Stories.” This was followed by “ Tales Out of School,” “ A Jolly 
Fellowship,” “The Story of Viteau,” “Roundabout Rambles,” “What 
Might Have Been Expected,” etc. These works are all for young people, 
but it may be questioned whether the older folks have not found as much 
pleasure iu them as their juniors. 

The two works by which Mr. Stockton became most favorably known, 
were “ Rudder Grange,” published in 1879, and “ The Lady or the Tiger, 
and Other Stories,” issued in 1884. “ The Late Mrs. Null ” appeared in 

1886, “ Christmas Wreck and Other Tales” in 1887, “ The Great War 
Syndicates ” in 1889, “Stories of Three Burglars” in 1890, and “The 
Merry Chanter ” iu the same year. Afterward came “ The Associate 
Hermits,” and “ Ardis Cloverden,” and this was followed by a most 
absurd, yet very humorous fiction, entitled “ The Casting Away of Mrs. 
Leeks and Mrs. Alesliine.” 

Mr. Stockton has occasionally courted the muses and is the author 
of some poems, which, while bearing the mark of his individuality, are 
generally considered inferior to his prose works. Although gifted with 
vivid imagination, this faculty finds its more appropriate sphere in the 
realm of fiction. Died April 20, 1902. 


POMONA DESCRIBES HER BRIDAL TRIP. 


111 IV J OW, then,’ says June, after he’d been 
| ^ thinkin’ a while, ‘ there’ll be no 
more foolin’ on this trip. To-mor¬ 
row we’ll go to father’s, an’ if the old gentle¬ 
man has got any money on the crops, which 
I expect he has by this time. I’ll take up a 
part of my share, an’ we’ll have a trip to 
Washington an’ see the President, an’ Con¬ 
gress, an’ the White House, an’ the lamp 
always a-burnin’ before the Supreme Court, 
an’—’ 

“ ‘ Don’t say no more,’ says I; ‘ it’ssplendid! ’ 
“So early the nex’ day we goes off jus’ as 
fast as trains would take us to his father’s an’ 


we hadn’t been there more’n ten minutes 
before Jone found out he had been summoned 
on a jury. 

“ ‘ When must you go ? ’ says I, when he 
come, lookin’ kind o’ pale, to tell me this. 

“‘Right off,’ says he. ‘ The court meets 
this rnornin.’ If I don’t hurry up I’ll have 
some of ’em after me. B.ut I won’t cry about 
it. I don’t believe the case’ll last more’n a day. 

“ The old man harnessed up an’ took Jone 
to the court house, an’ I went too, for I might 
as well keep up the idea of a bridal trip as 
not. I went up into the gallery an’ Jone he 
was set among the other men in the jury-box. 




FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 


377 


“ The case was about a man named Brown, 
who married the half sister of a man named 
Adams, who afterward married Brown’s 
mother an’ sold Brown a bouse he had got 
from Brown’s grandfather in trade for half a 
grist mill, which the other half of it was 
owned by Adams’ half-sister’s first husband, 
who left all his property to a Soup Society, in 
trust, till his son should come of age, which 
he never did, but left a will which gave his 
half of the mill to Brown ; an’ the suit was 
between Brown an’ Adams an’ Brown again, 
an’ Adams’ half-sister, who was divorced from 
Brown, an’ a man named Ramsey, who had 
put up a new overshot wheel to the grist mill. 

“That case wasn’t a easy one to understand, 
as you may see for yourself, an’ it didn’t get 
finished that day. They argyed over it a full 
week. When there wasn’t no more witnesses 
to carve up, one lawyer made a speech, an’ 
he set that crooked case up so straight that 
you could see through it from the over-shot 
wheel clean back to Brown’s grandfather. 
Then another feller made a speech an’ he set 
the whole thing up another way. 

“ It was jus’ as clear to look through but 
it was another case altogether, no more like 
the other one than a apple pie is like a mug 
o’ cider. An’ then they both took it up, an’ 


they swung it around between ’em till it was 
all twisted an’ knotted an’ wound up an’ 
tangled worse than a skein o’ yarn in a nest 
o’ kittens, au’ then they give it to the jury. 

“Well, when them jurymen went out there 
wasn’t none of ’em, as Jone told me after¬ 
ward, as knew whether it was Brown or 
Adams as was dead, or whether the mill was 
to grind soup or to be run by soup power. 
Of course, they couldn’t agre<\ Three of’em 
wanted to give a verdict for the boy that died, 
two of ’em was for Brown’s grandfather, an’ the 
rest was scattered, some goin’ in for damages 
to the witnesses, who ought to get somethin’ 
for havin’ their characters ruined. Jone he 
jus’ held back ready to jine the other eleven 
as soon as they’d agreed. 

“ But they couldn’t do it, an’ they were 
locked up three days an’ four nights. You’d 
better believe I got pretty wild about it, but I 
come to court every day an’ waited, bringin’ 
somethin’ to eat in a basket. Jone never had 
no chance to jine in with the other fellers, for 
they couldn’t agree, an’ they were all dis¬ 
charged at last. So the whole thing went for 
nothin’. When Jone come out he looked like 
he’d been drawn through a pump-log, and he 
says to me, tired like: 

“ ‘ Let s go home an’ settle down! ’ ” 






Charles Dudley Warner. 

Distinguished Litterateur. 


OURNALIST, essayist, author of books, and always a humorist, 
Mr. Warner has graced American literature and is one of the 
brightest ornaments of his profession. His quiet humor ap¬ 
pears in nearly all of his writings ; it is a kind of perpetual 
sunshine. It is not the humor that is manufactured, but is as 
spontaneous as the hillside fountain, and as clear and gentle 
as the stream that flows from it. For many 3’ears his fertile brain was 
busy, and few authors who have written so much have finished their 
work so well. 

Mr. Warner was born in Plainfield, Massachusetts, September 12, 
1S29. He was a descendent of one of the Pilgrim Fathers, and so may 
be supposed to have inherited a certain vigor and independence of char¬ 
acter, self-reliance and the ambition to master difficulties aud accomplish 
results. He graduated from Hamilton College, Clinton, N. Y., where he 
gained a reputation as a scholarly, thoughtful, and withal, humorous 
essayist. 

After spending a winter in Michigan which proved disastrous, two 
years as a surveyor on the frontier, and then some time in the study of 
law, he began the practice of his profession in Philadelphia. His tastes, 
however, did not fit him for the practice of law. Having taken up his 
residence in Hartford, Conn., he became connected with the “ Hartford 
Courant ” through Senator Joseph R. Hawley, its editor-in-chief. It was 
evident that he had now found the pursuit for which he was especially 
qualified. His miscellaneous articles in this journal began to attract 
attention. In 1870 he made numerous contributions to the paper which 
were afterwards collected and published under the title of “ My Summer 
in a Garden.” This work gave him a wide reputation. He traced the 
subtle connection between ‘ Pusley ” and “Original sin,” and his droll 
conceits, playful satire and sparkling style interested and amused a large 
circle of readers. It was conceded that a new writer had appeared whose 
originality was beyond dispute. 

3TtS 





CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 


379 


He wrote “ Back Log Studies ” in 1872, and in this work revealed 
that genuine home affection and fondness for domestic life by which he 
was always distinguished. This work appeared first as a series in 
“ Scribner’s Magazine,” and was not only admired for its wholesome 
thoughts and sentiments, but for its elegance of style and choice use of 
language. 

Mr. Warner was always a friend and advocate of education, and 
wrote many articles and lectures for the benefit of teachers in the higher 
grades of mental culture. He was not especially gifted as an orator, his 
manner being much more tame than the intellectual quality of his 
addresses. But he always had something to say which was well worth 
saying and worth remembering by those who heard it. 

He was somewhat of a travelier. “ My Winter on the Nile ” ap¬ 
peared in 1876; “ In the Levant” was issued in 1877; “ In the Wilder¬ 
ness ” in 1878 ; “ Roundabout Journeys ” in 1883, and “ Their Pilgrim¬ 
age ” 1886. His works entitled “ Being a Boy ” and “ How I Shot a 
Bear,” are bubbling over with spontaneous humor. He became co-editor 
of “ Harper’s Magazine ” in 1884, and later compiled the best collection 
of English literature we have ever had. Mr. Warner died suddenly at 
Hartford, October 20, 1900. 


UNCLE DANIEL'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 

The following from “The Gilded Age,” by Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens,) and 
Charles Dudley Warner, represents a family emigrating from Eastern Tennessee into 
Missouri. The subjects of this sketch had never before been out of sight of “ The Knobs 
of East Tennessee.” 


W HATEVER the lagging, dragging 
journey may have been to the rest 
of the emigrants, it was a wonder 
and delight to the children, a world of en¬ 
chantment ; and they believed it to be peopled 
with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and 
goblins that figured in the tales the negro 
slaves were in the habit of telling them 
nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen 
fire. 

At the end of nearly a week of travel, the 
party went into camp near a shabby village 
which was caving, house by house, into the 
hungry Mississippi. The river astonished the 
children beyond measure. Its mile-breadth 


of water seemed an ocean to them, in the 
shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of 
trees on the further shore, the verge of a con¬ 
tinent which surely none but they had ever 
seen before. 

“ Uncle Dan’l ” (colored,) aged 40 ; his 
wife, “ Aunt Jinny,” aged 30,“Young Miss ” 
Emily Hawkins, “Young Mars” Washing¬ 
ton Hawkins and “ Young Mars ” Clay, the 
| new member of the family, ranged themselves 
j on a log, after supper, and contemplated the 
marvelous river and discussed it. The moon 
rose and sailed aloft through a maze of 
1 shredded cloud-wreaths; the sombre river 
j just perceptibly brightened under the veiled 




380 


CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 


light; a deep silence pervaded the air and 
was emphasized, at intervals, rather than 
broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying 
of a dog, or the muffled crash of a caving 
bank in the distance. 

The little company assembled on the log 
were all children, (at least in simplicity and 
broad and comprehensive ignorance) and the 
remarks they made about the river were in 
keeping with their character; and so awed 
were they by the grandeur and the solemnity 
of the scene before them, and by their belief 
that the air was filled with invisible spirits 
and that the faint zephyrs were caused by 
their passing wings, that all their talk took to 
itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their 
voices were subdued to a low and reverent 
tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan’l exclaimed : 

“ Chil’en, dahs sumfin a cornin’! ” 

All crowded close together and every heart 
beat faster. Uncle Dan’l pointed down the 
river with his bony finger. 

A deep coughing sound troubled the still¬ 
ness, way toward a wooded cape that jutted 
into the stream a mile distant, All in an in¬ 
stant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind 
the cape aud sent a long brilliant pathway 
quivering athwart the dusky water. The 
coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring 
eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder 
and still wilder. 

A huge shape developed itself out of the 
gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense 
volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with 
sparks, poured out and went tumbling away 
into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer 
the thing came, till its long sides began to 
glow with spots of light which mirrored them¬ 
selves in the river and attended the monster 
like a torchlight procession. 

“ What is it! Oh, what is it, Uncle Dan’l!” 

With deep solemnity the answer came : 

“It’s de Almighty! Git down on yo’ 
knees ! ” 

It was not necessary to say it twice. They 
were all kneeling, in a moment. And then 
while the mysterious coughing rose stronger 
and stronger and the threatening glare reached 
farther and wider, the negro’s voice lifted up 
its supplications: 


“ O Lord, we’s ben mighty wicked, an* we 
knows dat we ’zerve to go to de bad place, but 
good Lord, deah Lord, we aint ready yet, we 
aiut ready—let dese po’ chil’en hab one mo’ 
chance, jes’ one mo’ chance. Take de ole 
niggah if you’s got to hab somebody. Good 
Lord, good deah Lord, we don’t know whah 
you’s a gwine to, we don’t know who you’s 
got yo’ eye on, but we knows by de way you’s 
a tiltin’ along in yo’ charyot o’ fiah dat some 
po’ sinner’s a gwyne to ketch it. But good 
Lord, dese chil’en don’t b’long heah, day’s 
f’m Obedstown whah dey don’t know nuffin, 
an’ you knows, yo’ own sef, dat dey aint 
’sponsible. An’ deah Lord, good Lord, it aint 
like yo’ mercy, it aint like yo’ pity, it aint like 
yo’ long-sufferin’ lovin’-kindness for to take 
dis kind o’ ’vantage o’ sich little chil’en ns 
dese is when dey’s so many ornery grown 
folks chuck full o’ cussedness dat wants roastin’ 
down dah. O Lord, spah de little chil’en, 
don’t tar de little chil’en away f’m dey frens, 
jes’ let ’em off jes’ dis once, and take it out’n 
de ole niggah. Heah I is, Lord heah I is! 
De ole niggah’s ready, Lord, de ole-” 

The flaming and churning steamer was 
right abreast the party, and not twenty steps 
away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve 
suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, 
and as suddenly Uncle Dan’l snatched a child 
under each arm and scoured into the woods 
with the rest of the pack at his heels. And 
then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the 
deep darkness and shouted (but rather 
feebly): 

“ Heah I is, Lord, heah I is! ” 

There was a moment of throbbing suspense, 
and then, to the surprise aud comfort of the 
party, it was plain that the august presence 
had gone by, for its dreadful noises were re¬ 
ceding. Uncle Dan’l headed a cautious 
reconnoissance in the direction of the log. 
Sure enough “ the Lord ” was just turning a 
point a short distance up the river, and while 
they looked, the lights winked out and the 
coughing diminished by degrees and presently 
ceased altogether. 

“H’wsh! Well now dey’s some folks says 
dey aint no ’ficiency in prah. Dis chile 
would like to know whah we’d a ben now 






381 


CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 


if it warn’t fo’ dat prah ? Dat’s it. Dat’s 
it!” 

“ Uncle Dan’l, do you reckon it was the 
prayer that saved us? ” said Clay. 

“ Does I reckon f Don’t I know it! Wliah 
was yo’ eyes? Warn’t de Lord jes’ a cornin’ 
chow! chow! chow! an’ a goiu’on turrible 


—an’ do de Lord carry on dat way ’douc dey’s 
surnfin don’t suit him? An’ warn’t he a 
lookin’ right at dis gang heah, an’ warn’t he 
jes’ a reachin’ for ’em ? An’ d’you spec’ he 
gwyne to let ’em off ’dout somebody ast him 
to do it ? No indeedy! ” 


BEING A BOY. 


O NE of the best things in the world to be 
is a boy ; it requires no experience, 
though it needs some practice to be a 
good one. The disadvantage of the position 
is that it does not last long enough. It is 
soon over. Just as you get used to being a 
boy, you have to be something else, with a 
good deal more work to do, and not half so 
much fun. 

And yet every boy is anxious to be'a man, 
and is very uneasy with the restrictions that 
are put upon him as a boy. There are so 
many bright spots in the life of a farm boy 
that I sometimes think I should like to live 
the life over again. I should almost be will¬ 
ing to be a girl if it were not for the chores. 

There is a great comfort to a boy in the 
amount of work he can get rid of doing. It 
is sometimes astonishing how slow he can 
go on an errand. Perhaps lie couldn’t ex¬ 
plain, himself, why, when he is sent to the 
neighbor’s after yeast, he stops to stone the 
frogs. He is not exactly cruel, but he wants 


to see if he can hit ’em. It is a curious fact 
about boys, that two will be a great deal 
slower in doing anything than one. Boys 
have a great power of helping each other do 
nothing. But say what you will about the 
general usefulness of boys, a farm without a 
boy would very soon come to grief. He is 
always in demand. 

In the first place, he is to do all the errandst 
go to the store, the post-office, and to carry all 
sorts of messages. He would like to have as 
many legs as a wheel has spokes, and rotate 
about in the same way. This he sometimes 
tries to do, and people who have seen him 
“ turning cart-wheels ” along the side of the 
road have supposed he was amusing himself 
and idling his time. He was only trying to 
invent a new mode of locomotion, so that he 
could economize his legs and do his errands 
with greater dispatch. Leap-frog is one of 
his methods of getting over the ground 
quickly. He has a natural genius for com¬ 
bining pleasure with business. 


A YOUNG 

SHOULD think myself a criminal, if I 
said anything to chill the enthusiasm of 
the young scholar, or to dash with any 
scepticism his longing and his hope. He has 
chosen the highest. His beautiful faitb, and 
his aspiration, are the light of life. Without 
his fresh enthusiasm, and his gallant devotion 
to learning, to art, to culture, the world 
would be dreary enough. 

Through him comes the ever-springing in¬ 
spiration in affairs. Baffled at every turn, 


SCHOLAR. 

and driven defeated from an hundred fields 
he carries victory in himself. He belongs to 
a great and immortal army. 

And some day the whole army advances, 
and the flag is planted on an ancient fortress, 
where it never waved before. And even if 
you never see this, better than inglorious 
camp-following, is it to go in with the wasting 
regiment, to carry the colors up the scope of 
the enemy’s work, though the next moment 
you fall at the foot of the glacis. 







Lyman Abbott. 

Editor and Author. 


HE Abbotts are among tbe few families in our country, who, as 
such, are distinguished writers. From one or another of the 
members of this family we have had history, fiction, juvenile 
books, sermons and miscellaneous newspaper and magazine 
articles, all possessed of unusual merit. Their names were 
perhaps more familiar to the past generation than to the 
present, although the subject of this sketch is well known as a preacher 
and editor. 

Having been called to be the successor of Henry Ward Beecher after 
the death of that celebrated clergyman, Mr. Abbott soon furnished the 
reasons for the choice made by Plymouth Church, and by his vigorous 
thinking, advanced opinions, incisive style of writing, plain speaking and 
genial personality, answered the question as to why the mantle of our 
greatest pulpit orator had fallen upon him. He was qualified to be a 
teacher, a leader of thought. 

The third son of Jacob Abbott, he was born in Roxbury, Mass., 
December 18th, 1835, and graduated at the University of the City of 
New York in 1853. He studied law and was admitted to the bar iu 1856, 
but soon abandoned law for theology, which he studied with his uncle, 
Rev. John S. C. Abbott, the author. He entered the ministry in i860, 
his first pastoral charge being a Congregational Church in Terre Haute, 
Ind., where he remained until 1865. He then became Secretary of the 
American Union (Freedmen’s) Commission, which office called him to 
New York and occupied him until 1868. In the meantime he was also 
pastor of the New England Church of that city, but resigned in 1869, 
to devote himself to literature and journalism. 

In conjunction with his brothers he wrote two novels, and for several 
years edited the “ Literary Record ” of “ Harper’s Magazine,” at the same 
time conducting the “ Illustrated Christian Weekly.” He was afterward 
associated with Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, in the editorship of the 

“ Christian Union,” and upon Mr. Beecher’s retirement became editor in- 

382 




LYMAN ABBOTT. 


383 


chief. Mr. Abbott has written a number of books of devotion and Bibli¬ 
cal history, a “ Life of Henry Ward Beecher,” and has edited Mr. 
Beecher’s sermons and lectures, in addition to his many contributions to 
periodical literature. In January, 1889, he received a call to the pastorate 
of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, where he remained ten years, and then 
resigned in order to devote his time to the editorship of “ The Outlook,” 
a periodical, which, under his direction, has taken high rank among 
religious journals. 

It can doubtless be claimed for Mr. Abbott that he is one of the kind 
of men who make the world move, who make it go ahead. These souls, 
superbly restless, are not satisfied with ancient thoughts and customs. 
They respect the past, but believe one considerable part of our business 
is to let go of it. They paint an ideal future. They are often, in fact, 
generally misunderstood, are doubted and mistrusted, and to many 
persons are enigmas. 


LEAD THE WAY. 


A CANNON-BALL rolling loosely in the 
cannon’s mouth is simply a piece of 
harmless metal, but with a charge of 
powder behind it has the breathless speed and 
irresistible power of the thunderbolt. Truth 
and character are not enough in life; both 
must have back of them the force of a con¬ 
centrated personality, a will on fire with zeal 
and energy. 

Any study of the men and women we know 
brings out not so much the differences of gifts 
among them as the differences of impulse and 
motivity. Some of the most richly endowed 
effect little because their capital is largely 
unused; some of the most ordinary in natural 
ability do wonders because of the concentra¬ 
tion and intensity of purpose and zeal which 
dominate them. Many lives are true but 
hidden because their fires have never been 
lighted ; others are luminous, even resplendent 
because the flame of purpose turns everything 
into heat and light. 

St. Paul was one of those torch-bearers, and 
the light that was in him was the dawn of a 
new day for half a world. Doubtless other 
men of his time saw the truth clearly, and 
accepted it frankly, but none of them put be¬ 


hind it such a magnificent force of personality, 
none of them gave it such an irresistible im¬ 
pulse. Wherever he moved, the stagnant 
air of a dying civilization was stirred by a 
current that was the breath of the morning 
after the close and murky night. 

It was nothing to him that Asia and 
Europe lay in darkness; he needed no light 
from them on his long and painful path ; it 
was his joy to let the truth aflame in his own 
soul stream out along the coasts of the Mediter¬ 
ranean, a solitary traveler, and yet more 
powerful than emperors. Such a life reveals 
the irresistible might of truth when it has set 
a soul on fire with purpose and enthusiasm. 

The world to-day is full of good men and 
Avomen who are missing this sublime possibility 
of giving themselves in light, heat, and force; 
they have the truth, and they are anxious to 
do their duty by it, but they are not luminous; 
they set no new currents of earnest living in 
motion through the sluggish air of the world. 
Instead of impressing themselves upon society, 
they are impressed by it; instead of leading 
the march, they follow in the ranks. 

They need to let the truth take possession 
of them, to lose themselves and all conscious- 




384 


LYMAN ABBOTT. 


ness of their own limitations and weaknesses 
in devotion to the great ideal of noble living. 
The world is not so much antagonistic to 
truth as indifferent to it; it protests against 
being disturbed, but once aroused it is ready 


to follow. The fire of a strong soul, deeply 
moved and in dead earnest, is contagious; it 
has more than once set a whole race aflame, 
and sent its influences to the very ends of 
the earth. 


HE WORRIED ABOUT IT. 


<*nPHE sun’s heat will give out in ten 
million years more,” 

And he worried about it; 

“It will sure give out then, if it doesn’t be¬ 
fore,” 

And he worried about it; 

It would surely give out, so the scientists said, 

In all scientific books that he read, 

And the whole mighty universe then would 
be dead, 

And he worried about it; 

“ And some day the earth will fall into the 
sun,” 

And he worried about it; 

“Just as sure, and as straight, as if shot from 
a gun,” 

And he worried about it; 

“ When strong gravitation unbuckles her 
straps, 

Just picture,” he said, “ what a fearful 
collapse! 

It will come in a few million ages, perhaps,” 

And he worried about it; 

“ The earth will become much too small for 
the race,” 

And he worried about it; 

“ When we’ll pay thirty dollars an inch for 
pure space,” 

And he worried about it; 

“ The earth will be crowded so much, without 
doubt, 

That there’ll be no room for one’s tongue to 
stick out, 

And no room for one’s thoughts to wander 
about,” 

And he worried about it; 


“ The Gulf Stream will curve, and New Eng¬ 
land grow torrider,” 

And he worried about it; 

“ Than was ever the climate of southernmost 
Florida,” 

And he worried about it. 

“ The ice crop will be knocked into small 
smithereens, 

And crocodiles block up our mowing ma¬ 
chines, 

And we’ll lose our fine crops of potatoes and 
beans,” 

And he worried about it. 

“And in less than ten thousand years, there’s 
no doubt,” 

And he worried about it; 

“ Our supply of lumber and coal will give 
out,” 

And he worried about it; 

“Just then the Ice Age will return cold and 
raw, 

Frozen men will staud stiff with arms out¬ 
stretched in awe, 

As if vainly beseeching a general thaw,” 

And he worried about it. 

His wife took in washing (a dollar a day,) 

He didn’t worry about it; 

His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer to 

pay, 

He didn’t worry about it: 

While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub- 
dub 

On the washboard drum in her old wooden 
tub 

He sat by the stove and he just let her rub, 

He didn’t worry about it. 





Benjamin P. Shillaber. 

Known as “ Mrs. Partington.” 



: N tlie popular humor of recent times, this author made an 
emphatic hit. The droll sayings of “ Mrs. Partington ” drew 
smiles to the gravest faces, and the quaint old lady became 
a conspicuous character. She scored a decided success in 
blunders. Her humors of speech entitle her to consideration 
from all who accept the new gospel of laughter, believing it to 
be healthful to body and mind. 

Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber was born at Portsmouth, New Hamp¬ 
shire, July 12, 1814. After having been connected with several periodi¬ 
cals, he published, in 1852, “ Rhymes With Reason and Without.” 
This was followed by other works, namely, “ Life and Sayings of Mrs. 
Partington,” “ Partingtonian Patchwork,” “ Lines in Pleasant Places,” 
“ Ike Partington and His Friends,” “ Cruises With Captain Bob,” and 
“ The Double-Runner Club,” which appeared in 1882. The author died 
November 25, 1890. He had made his home in Boston. 


MY FRIEND’S SECRET. 


I FOUND my friend in his easy chair, 

With his heart and his head undisturbed 
by a care; 

The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips, 
His face like a moon in a semi-eclipse ; 

His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose, 

And his chair tilted back to a classical pose. 

I marveled much such contentment to see— 
The secret whereof I begged he’d give me. 

He puffed away with re-animate zest, 

As though with an added jollity blest;— 

“ I’ll tell you, my friend,” said he in pause, 

“ What is the very ‘ identical ’ cause. 

“ Don’t fret!—Let this be the first rule of 
your life;— 

Don’t fret with your children, don’t fret with 
your wife; 

25 


Let everything happen as happen it may, 

Be cool as a cucumber every day; 

If favorite of fortune or a thing of its spite, 
Keep calm, and believe that all is just right. 

“ If you’re blown up abroad or scolded at home. 
Just make up your mind to let it all come; 

If people revile you or pile on offence, 

’Twill not make any odds a century hence; 
For all the reviling that malice can fling, 

A little philosophy softens the sting. 

“ Run never in debt, but pay as you go; 

A man free from debt feels a heaven below; 
He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun, 
And ranks ’mid the favored as A No. 1. 

It needs a great effort the spirit to brace 
’Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor’s 
face. 


385 







386 BENJAMIN P. 

“ And this one resolve you should cherish like 
gold, 

—It has ever my life and endeavor controlled,— 
If fortune assailed, and worst comes to worst, 
And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst, 
Be resolved, if disaster your plans circum¬ 
vent, 

That you will, if you fail, owe no one a 
cent.” 


SHIEEABER. 

There was Bunsby’s deep wisdom revealed in 
his tone, 

Though its depth was hard to fathom I own, 

“ For how can 1 fail,” I said to myself, 

“ If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?” 
Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light, 
But gave up the effort, supposing ’twas right; 
And herein give out, as my earnest intent, 
Whenever I fa., to owe no man a cent. 


JOHN SMITH’S WILL. 


N OW, Mr. Smith, who had taken his leave, 
Was a prudeutish sort of a man ; 

He always said to prevent, not retrieve, 
Was far the properest plan ; 

So, to hinder heart-burning and jealous hate, 
And contending heirs make still, 

Before he surrendered himself to fate 
He prudently framed a will. 

But kept it shut from mortal look, 

Nor could any define its tone; 

To the favored to-be ’twas a close-sealed book, 
As well as the destined-to-none. 

So hope ran strong and hope hope ran high 
In every degree of kin ; 

For virtues of Smith was breathed many a sigh, 
But smiles were reserved for his tin. 

Nor wife nor child 
On Smith had e’er smiled, 

To inherit the money for which he had toiled ; 
And he’d no nearer kin than uncles or cousins— 
But these he had in numberless dozens. 

Now cold was his clay, 

And appointed the day 

When his will was to open in legal way; [all 
And the summons was put in the “ Post,” and 
Of the “ next of kin ” were invited to call, 

To see what share to their lot would fall; 

And every heir 
Had assembled there 

From the sea and land, and from everywhere : 
There was Smith from the plain, 

And Smith from the still, 

And Smith from the main, 

And Smith from the mill, 

And Smith from the mountain, 

And Smith from the mart, 


Aud Smith from the fountain, 

And Smith from the cart; 

From the furthest off to the very near, 

The Smiths all came the will to hear. 

And they soberly sat 
In neighborly chat, 

Talking all about this and that, 

While the clock by the door 

Was watched more and more 

As the minute-hand neared the hour of four— 

The hour set when the opening seal 

Their joy or their chagrin would reveal. 

“ Watch a pot and ’twill never boil,” 

Hasten time—’tis an up-hill toil; 

Watch a clock for the hour to go— 

Tis the weariest work a man can know ; 

And thus as they watched their patience waned, 
Though not a voice of the mass complained. 
For they thought it wouldn’t be prudent to 
show [know. 

That they were aught anxious their doom to 

Four struck at last, and, in eager array, 

They gathered around an old man gray, 

Who straightway out from its iron nook 
Mr. Smith’s very “ last will ” then took, 

Nicely with black tape strongly tied, 

With a huge black seal on either side. 

The click of the shears, as the threads did part, 
Went with a thrill to each waiting heart, 

And then with anxious ear they hung 
Upon every word of the old man’s tongue. 

His “soundness of mind” 

And his creed were defined, 

And then came the names to whom he was; 
kind : 









BENJAMIN P. SHIELABER. 


38T 


A cane to this. 

And a box to that; 

To one his dog, 

Another his cat; 

To this his buckles. 

To that his hat; 

Till, through the long list of legacies run. 

The name of the heir was lighted upon : 
When, in tones like the tones of a bell 
These were the words from his will that fell: 

“ And further, I, John 
Have fixed upon, 

To fill my place upon earth when I’m gone— 
John Smith the tenth, to be my heir. 

My house to maintain and my honors to bear.’’ 

Now, here was a stew 
To know what to do. 

Or who the fortune had fallen to; 

They couldn’t tell, were they to be shot, 

For fifteen Johns were then on the spot; 

And which was the tenth with the prefix 
“John” 


1 They were sadly at a loss to fix upon. 

; Then they argued the matter early and 
late, 

But doubting grew with the growing de¬ 
bate. 

And lawsuits gathered, and fees flew free. 

And juries tried it and couldn’t agree, 

And fortunes were spent, till hope was gone, 
In finding who was the favored John ! 

But they found instead that it loouldnH pay, 
And so in court they allowed it to lay, 

In the dust and rust of years piled away. 

A century is it since Mr. Smith died, 

I And his family name is scattered wide, 

I And towns have arisen upon his broad land, 
Prosperity beaming on every hand; 

■ A factory hums o’er his old hearth-stone. 

But John Smith the tenth one was never 
known, 

Aid John Smith’s will will in chancery be 
| Till time is lost in eternity’s sea. 


A PARTY NAMED BLIFKINS. 


“ T""\0 I look like a debauchee ? ” said Blif- 
I J kins, as he came in the morning after 
the reunion of the Jolliboys at Parker’s. 
We told him that we didn’t think he did. We 
turned him round to the light, so that we could 
look into his eyes. They were as clear as a bell, 
and as full of laugh as an egg is full of meat. 

“Why do you ask?” we said, as he sat 
down on the damask lounge in our back room, 
in front of the great mirror that had in the 
early days of the republic reflected the fea¬ 
tures of the Father of his Country. He 
looked up, with a very roguish expression, as 
he said. ‘ Mrs. Blifkins,” and broke out with 
a laugh that shook things. We took another 
look at him, to ascertain if our first impres¬ 
sion were not wrong, for it seemed to us that ! 
a sober man would not have acted thus. He I 
cooled down, and then again attempted to 
explain the reason for his mirth. After sev¬ 
eral commencements he managed to tell his 
story. 

“ Mrs. Blifkins will have it that I was ! 


tight,” said he, “ though there isn’t a Jolliboy 
that will not say I was right as a trivet. It 
was about three when I got home, and when I 
unlocked the door there stood Mrs. Blifkins 
in a spirit of patience, and a long flannel bed¬ 
gown, waiting for me. 

“ * So you’ve come,’ said she, as I entered. 

“ I assured her that such was the fact, and 
asked her if she wasn’t afraid that getting up 
so early would be injurious to her health. 

| Whereupon she informed me that her health 
was the last thing I cared for — that no man 
I who cared for his wife’s health would expose 
her to the danger of sitting up till three 
o’clock in the morning, and he away indulg¬ 
ing in dissipation. 

“ ‘ But,’ said I, * my dear, there was no need 
of your sitting up. I was fully competent to 
take care of myself. I have that prudent re¬ 
gard for myself that never leads me over the 
bounds of sobriety, and to-night, in particu¬ 
lar, I am wonderfully correct.’ 

“ I attempted to salute her, but she drew 




BENJAMIN P. SHIEEABER. 


back with a contemptuous and deprecating 
‘ Faugh! ’ as though she detected odors of 
bacchanalian haunts in my breath. But I 
saw that a change was coming over my face, 
and she immediately assumed the patronizing 
and sympathetic. 

“ ‘ Come, Mr. Blif kins,’ said she; ‘ you had 
better go to bed, and sleep it off. Your head 
will ache fearfully in the morning, and serve 
you right, because a man with a family ought 
to know better than to make such a brute of 
himself.’ 

“ ‘ But, my dear,’ said I, interrupting her, 

‘ I assure you your fears are groundless. See 
me walk that seam in the carpet.’ 

“ I attempted it; but I stepped on a con¬ 
founded marble that one of the children had 
dropped on the floor, and came nigh falling 
down. 

“ * I knew so,’ she sighed ; ‘ what a pity! 
But I am used to it. I am glad the children 
are not up to witness their father’s disgrace— 
little dears.’ 

“ * But I’m not,’ cried I, trying to save my 
credit. 

“ ‘ Don’t say another word,’ she said, ‘ go to 
bed, and sleep it off.’ 


“ I made no further parley, but walked up 
stairs, and in five minutes was enjoying the 
sleep that only the innocent know. When I 
awoke in the morning, Mrs. Blifkins was 
standing over me with the most severely vir¬ 
tuous face I ever knew her to wear. 

“‘Well,’said she,‘I dare say your head 
aches finely this morning—good enough for 
you, and all such as indulge in such practices.’ 

“ ‘ Nary a headache,’ said I, sitting up in 
bed; ‘ never felt better in my life. Give us 
a cup of chocolate, and I will soon join 
you.’ 

“ ‘ Chocolate! ’ said she ; ‘ chocolate after a 
debauch! You mean a cup of strong tea.’ 

“ I thought of Mrs. Joe Gargery’s tar water, 
and said no more. She was determined, I 
saw, that I was ‘an example,’ although I assure 
you, on my word as a member of the Associa¬ 
tion for the Promotion of Universal Good, 
that I was as straight as a die. Isn’t it 
strange ? ” 

We assured Blifkins that the saying, “ Once 
a rogue, always suspected,” applied to him, 
and that he ought to be grateful for the 
never-tiring interest thus disposed to watch 
over his unguardedness ; but he didn’t see it. 






Joel Chandler Harris. 

Whose Pen-Name is “ Uncle Remus.” 



R. HARRIS is an author who believes that all the materials for 
humor and romance lie near at hand, and no American writer 
has need to journey outside of his own country and people for 
characters and situations to furnish subject matter for his pen. 
Among the Negroes of the South there are endless super¬ 
stitions, traditions, curious characters and myths. Mr. Harris 
conceived the happy idea of embodying these in sketches and tales, and 
the result is a rich contribution to the literature that is distinctively 
American. 

He made a study of the folk-lore of the Negro race, discovered that 
in some instances the same was found among the Indians of South 
America, and that there are distinct traces of it even in Siam and India. 
How these myths, stories and traditions should be found among races so 
different and widely separated is an interesting problem. Mr. Harris has 
aimed to portray the quaint characteristics of the Negro population, 
dwelling largely, as it was easy to do, on the humorous features of his 
subj ect. 

The little village of Eatonton, Georgia, is Mr. Harris’ native place. 
Here, in circumstances not far removed from abject poverty, he was born 
December 9, 1848. A favorite book of his boyhood was the “ Vicar of 
Wakefield,” and it inspired him at that early date to try his hand at 
writing little stories. For a time he was a typesetter on a country 
newspaper. 

Afterward he began his literary career by contributing to “ Eip- 
pincott’s Magazine ” an article on Negro folk-lore. He afterward wove 
into his tales and sketches droll accounts of rabbits, foxes and other 
animals common to the South. Many of these were published in the 
well-known journal, the “ Atlanta Constitution,” a paper with which Mr. 
Harris finally became connected. He studied law, and for a time pursued 
his profession, but having a talent that pointed so plainly in another 
direction, he soon devoted himself to journalism and authorship. 


389 





390 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 

Besides contributing frequently to current magazine literature, he 
has published the following works: “ Uncle Remus, His Songs and His 
Sayings, the Folk-lore of the Old Plantation,” 1880; “Nights with 
Uncle Remus,” 1883 ; “Mingo and Other Sketches,” 1883. 


MR. RABBIT, MR. FOX, AND MR. BUZZARD. 

FROM “UNCLE REMUS.” 


COPYRIGHT, GEORGE 

O NE evening when the little boy whose 
nights with Uncle Remus are as en¬ 
tertaining as those Arabian ones of 
blessed memory, had finished supper and 
hurried out to sit with his venerable patron, 
he found the old man in great glee. Indeed,- 
Uncle Remus was talking and laughing to 
himself at such a rate that the little boy was 
afraid he had company. The truth is, Uncle 
Remus had heard the child coming, and when 
the rosy-cheeked chap put his head in at the 
door, was engaged in a monologue, the burden 
of which seemed to be— 

“ Ole Molly Har, 

W’at you doin’ dar, 

Settin’ in de cornder 
Smokin’ yo’ seegyar ? ” 

As a matter of course this vague allusion 
reminded the little boy of the fact that the 
wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the Rabbit, 
and he immediately put his curiosity in the 
shape of a question. 

Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go 
clean away when he got loose from the Tar- 
Baby ? ” 

“ Bless grashus, honey, dat he didn’t. Who ? 
Him ? You dunno nothin’ ’tall ’bout Brer 
Rabbit ef dat’s de way you puttin’ ’im down. 
W’at he gwine ’way fer ? He mouter stayed 
sorter close twel the pitch rub offn his ha’r, 
but twern’t menny days ’fo’ he wuz loping up 
and down de naberhood same ez ever, en I 
dunno ef he wern’t mo’ sassier dan befo’. 

“ Seem like dat de tale ’bout how he got 
mixt up wid de Tar-Baby got ’roun’ mongst 
<le nabers. Leas’ ways, Miss Meadows en de 
girls got win’ un’ it, en de nex’ time Brer 


ROUTLEDGE & SONS. 

Rabbit paid um a visit, Miss Meadows tackled 
’im ’bout it, en de gals sot up a monstus gig- 
glement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez cool 
ez a cowcumber, he did, en let ’em run on.” 

“ Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?” 
inquired the little boy. 

“ Don’t ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, 
Miss Meadows en de gals wuz, en de tale I 
give you like hi’t wer’ gun ter me. Brer 
Rabbit, he sot dar, he did, sorter lam’ like, en 
den bimeby he cross his legs, he did, and 
wink his eye slow, en up en say, sezee: 

“ ‘ Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy’s ridin’- 
hoss for thirty year; maybe mo’, but thirty 
year dat I knows un,’ sezee; en den he paid 
um his specks, en tip his beaver, en march off, 
he did, des ez stiff en ez stuck up ez a fire- 
stick. 

“ Nex’ day, Brer Fox cum a callin’, and 
w’en he gun fer to laff ’bout Brer Rabbit, 
Miss Meadows en de gals, dey ups en tells im 
’bout w’at Brer Rabbit say. Den Brer Fox 
grit his toof sho’ nuff, he did, en he look 
mighty dumpy, but when he riz fer to go he 
up en say, sezee: 

“ ‘ Ladies, I ain’t ’sputing w’at you say, but 
I’ll make Brer Rabbit chaw up his words en 
spit um out right yer whar you kin see ’im,’ 
sezee, en wid dat off Brer Fox marcht. 

“En w’en he got in de big road, he shuck 
de dew ofl’n his tail, en made a straight shoot 
fer Brer Rabbit’s house. W’en he got dar, 
Brer Rabbit wuz spectin’ un him, en de do’ 
wuz shut fas’. Brer Fox knock. Nobody 
ain’t answer. Brer Fox knock. Nobody 
ans’er. Den he knock agin—blam ! blam! 
Den Brer Rabbit holler out, mighty weak: 

1 “ ‘ Is dat you, Brer Fox ? I want you te 





JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


391 


run en fetch de doctor. Dat bit er parsley 
w’at I e’t dis mawnin’ is girtin' ’way wid me. 
Do, please, Brer Fox, run quick,’ sez Brer 
Rabbit, sezee. 

“ ‘ I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer 
Fox, sezee. ‘ Dere’s gwiuter be a party up at 
Miss Meadows’s,’ sezee. ‘All de gals ’ll be 
dere, en I promus’ dat I’d fetch you. De 
gals, dey ’lowed dat hit wouldn’t be no party 
‘ceppin I fotch you,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

“ Den Brer Rabbit say he wuz too sick, en 
Brer Fox say he wuzzent, en dar dey had it up 
and down sputin’ en contendin’. Brer Rabbit 
say he can’t walk. Brer Fox say he tote ’im. 
Brer Rabbit say how ? Brer Fox say in his 
arms. Brer Rabbit say he drap ’im. Brer 
Fox ’low he won’t. Bimeby Brer Rabbit say 
he go ef Brer Fox tote ’im on his back. 
Brer Fox say he would. Brer Rabbit say he 
can’t ride widout a saddle. Brer Fox say he 
git de saddle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t set in 
saddle less he have a bridle fer ter hoi’ by. 
Brer Fox say he git de bridle. Brer Rabbit 
say he can’t ride widout bline bridle, kaze 
Brer Fox be shyin’ at stumps ’long de road, en 
fling ’im off. Brer Fox say he git bline 
bridle. Den Brer Rabbit say he go. Den 
Brer Fox say he ride Brer Rabbit mos’t up ter 
Miss Meadows’s, en den he could git down 
en walk de balance ob de way. Brer Rabbit 
’greed, en den Brer Fox lipt out atter de 
saddle en de bridle. 

« Co’se Brer Rabbit know de game dat Brer 
Fox wuz fixin’ fer ter play, en he ’termin’ fer 
ter out-do ’im; en by de time he koam his 
h’ar en twis’ his mustarsh, en sorter rig up, 
yer come Brer Fox, saddle and bridle on, en 
lookin’ ez peart ez a circus pony. He trot up 
ter de do’ en stan’ dar pawin’ de ground en 
chompin’ de bit same like sho’ nuff hos, en 
Brer Rabbit he mount, he did, en dey amble 
off. Brer Fox can’t see behime wid de bline 
bridle on, but bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit 
raise one er his foots. 

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ 
sezee. 

“‘Short’nin’ delef stir’p, Brer Fox,’sezee. 

“ Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise de udder foot. 

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ 
sezee. 


“‘Pullin’ down my pants, Brer Fox,’ 
sezee. 

“All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer 
Rabbit wer puttin’ on his spurrers, en w’en 
dey got close to Miss Meadows, whar Brer 
Rabbit wuz to git off en Brer Fox made 
a motion for ter stan’ still, Brer Rabbit slap 
the spurrers inter Brer Fox flanks, en you 
better b’lieve he got over groun’. W’en 
dey got ter de house, Miss Meadows en all de 
gals wuz settin’ on de peazzer, en stidder 
stoppin’ at de gate Brer Rabbit rid on by, he 
did, en den come gallopin’ down de road en 
up ter de hoss-rack, w’ich he hitch Brer Fox 
at, en den he santer inter de house, he did, en 
shake han’s wid de gals, en set dar, smokin’ 
his seegyar same ez a town man. Bimeby he 
draw in long puff, en den let hit out in a 
cloud, en square hisse’f back, en holler out, 
he did: 

“ ‘ Ladies, ain’t I done tell you Brer Fox 
w T uz de ridin’ hoss fer our fambly ? He sorter 
losin’ his gait now, but I speck I kin fetch ’im 
all right in a mont’ or so,’ sezee. 

“ En den Brer Rabbit sorter grin, he did, 
en de gals giggle, en Miss Meadows, she praise 
up de pony, en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas’ 
ter de rack, en couldn’t he’p hisse’f.” 

“Is that all, Uncle Remus?” asked the 
little boy, as the old man paused. 

“ Dat ain’t all, honey, but ’twont do fer to 
give out too much cloff fer ter cut one pa’r 
pants,” replied the old man sententiously. 

When “Miss Sally’s” little boy went to 
Uncle Remus the next night, he found the 
old man in a bad humor. 

“ I ain’t tellin’ no tales ter bad chilluns,” 
said Uncle Remus curtly. 

“ But, Uncle Remus, I ain’t bad,” said the 
little boy plaintively. 

“ Who dat chuckin’ dem chickens dis 
mawnin ? Who dat knockin’ out fokes’s eyes 
wid dat Yaller-bammer sling des’ fo’ dinner? 
Who dat sickin’ dat pinter puppy atter my 
pig? Who dat scatterin’ my ingun sets? 
Who dat flingin’ rocks on top er my house, 
w’ich a little mo’en one un em would er drap 
spang on my head ? ” 

“ Well, now, Uncle Remus, I didn’t go to do 
it. I won’t do so any more. Please, Uncle 



392 


JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


Remus, if you will tell me, I’ll run to the 
house, and bring you some tea-cakes.” 

“Seein’ urn’s better’n hearin’ tell un um,” 
replied the old man, the severity of his coun¬ 
tenance relaxing somewhat; but the little boy 
darted out, and in a few minutes came run¬ 
ning back with his pockets full and his 
hands full. 

“ I lay yo’ mammy ’ll spishun dat de rats’ 
stummucks is widenin’ in dis naberhood w’en 
she come fer ter count up ’er cakes,” said 
Uncle Remus, with a chuckle. 

“Lemme see. I mos’ dis’member whar- 
bouts Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit wuz.” 

“ The rabbit rode the Fox to Miss 
Meadows’s, and hitched him to the horse- 
rack,” said the little boy. 

“W’y co’se he did,” said Uncle Remus. 
“Cose he did. Well, Brer Rabbit rid Brer 
Fox up, he did, en tied ’ini to de rack, en den 
sot out in the peazzer wid de gals a smokin’ er 
his seegyar wid mo’ proudness dan w’at you 
mos’ ever see. Dey talk, en dey sing, en dey 
play on the peanner, de gals did, twel bimeby 
hit come time fer Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, 
en he tell um all good-by, en strut out to de 
hoss-rack same’s ef he was de king er der 
patter-rollers, en den he mount Brer Fox en 
ride off. 

“ Brer Fox ain’t sayin’ nuthin ’tall. He 
des rack off, he did, en keep his mouf shet, en 
Brer Rabbit know’d der wuz bizness cookin’ 
up fer him, en he feel monstous skittish. 
Brer Fox amble on twel he git in de long 
lane, outer sight er Miss Meadows’s house, en 
den he tu’n loose, he did. He rip en he r’ar, 
en he cuss en he swar; he snort en he 
cavort.” 

“ What was he doing that for, Uncle 
Resmus? ” the little boy inquired. 

“ He wuz tryin’ fer ter fling Brer Rabbit 
ofFn his back, bless yo’ soul! But he des 
might ez well er rastle wid his own shadder. 

. Every time he hump hiss’f Brer Rabbit slap 
de spurrers in ’im, en dar dey had it up and 
down. Brer Fox fa’rly to’ up de groun’, he 
did, en he' jump so high en he jump so quick, 
dat he mighty nigh snatch his own tail off. 
Dey kep’ on gwine on dis way twel bimeby 
Brer Fox lay down en roll over, he did, en 


dis sorter onsettle Brer Rabbit, but by de 
time Brer Fox got en his footses agin, Brer 
Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de underbresh mo’ 
samer dan a race-boss. Brer Fox, he lit 
out atter im, he did, en he push Brer Rabbit 
so close, dat it wuz ’bout all he could do fer 
ter git in a holler tree. Hole too little fer 
Brer Fox fer to git in, en he hatter lay down 
en res’ en gedder his mine tergedder. 

“ While he wuz layin’ dar, Mr. Buzzard 
come floppin’ ’long, en seein’ Brer Fox 
stretch out on the groun’, he lit en view the 
premusses. Den Mr. Buzzard sorter shake 
his wing, en put his head on one side, en say 
to hisse’f like, sezee : 

“ ‘ Brer Fox dead, en I so sorry’, sezee. 

“ * No I ain’t dead, nudder,’ sez Brer Fox, 
sezee. ‘ I got ole man Rabbit pent up in yer’, 
sezee, ‘ en I’m gwineter git ’im dis time, ef it 
take twel Chris’mus,’ sezee. 

“ Den, atter some mo’ palaver, Brer Fox 
make a bargain dat Mr. Buzzard wuz ter 
watch de hole, en keep Brer Rabbit dar wiles 
Brer Fox went atter his axe. Den Brer Fox, 
he lope off, he did, en Mr. Buzzard, he tuck 
up his stan’ at de hole. Bimeby, w’en all get 
still, Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down close 
ter de hole, he did, en holler out: 

“ ‘ Brer Fox! Oh ! Brer Fox! ’ 

“ Brer Fox done gone, en nobody say 
nuthin’. Den Brer Rabbit squall out like he 
wuz mad: 

“ ‘ You needn’t talk less you wan ter,’ sezee; 
‘ I knows youer dar, an I ain’t keerin’, sezee. 
‘ I des wauter tell you dat I wish mighty bad 
Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here,’ sezee. 

“Den Mr. Buzzard try to talk like Brer 
Fox: 

“ ‘ W’at you want wid Mr. Buzzard ? ’ 

sezee. 

“‘Oh, nuthin’ in ’tickler, ’cep’ dere’s de 
fattes’ gray squir’l in yer dat ever I see,’ sezee, 
‘ en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was ’roun’ he’d 
be mighty glad fer ter git ’im, sezee. 

“‘How Mr. Buzzard gwine ter git him?’ 
sez de Buzzard, sezee. 

“‘Well, dar’s a little hole, roun’ on de 
udder side er de tree, sez Brer Rabbit, sezee 
‘ en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here so he 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


393 


could take up his stan’ dar, sezee, ‘ I’d drive 
dat squir’l out,’ sezee. 

“‘Drive ’im out, den’, sez Mr. Buzzard, 
sezee, ‘en I’ll see dat Brer Tukkey Buzzard 
gits ’im,’ sezee. 

“ Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like 
he wer’ drivin’ sumpin’ out, en Mr. Buzzard 
he rush ’roun’ fer ter ketch de squir’l, en Brer 
Rabbit, he dash out, he did, en he des fly fer 
home. 

“ Well, Mr. Buzzard he feel mighty lone¬ 
some, he did, but he done prommust Brer Fox 
dat he’d stay, en he termin’ fer ter sorter 
hang ’roun’ en jine in de joke. En he ain’t 
hatter wait long, nudder, kase bimeby yer 
come Brer Fox gallopin’ thoo de woods wid 
his axe on his shoulder. 

“ ‘ How you speck Brer Rabbit gittin’ on, 
Brer Buzzard?’sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

“ ‘ Oh, he in dar,’ sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. 

‘ He mighty still, dough. I speck he takin’ a 
nap,’ sezee. 

“ ‘ Den I’m des in time fer ter wake ’im up,’ 
sez Brer Fox, sezee. En wid dat he fling off 
his coat, en spit in his han’s, en grab de axe. 
Den he draw back en come down on de 
tree—pow! En eve’y time he come down 
wid de axe—pow!—Mr. Buzzard, he step 
high, he did, en holler out: 

“ Oh, he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.’ 

“ En eve’y time a chip ud fly off, Mr. Buz¬ 
zard, he’d jump, en dodge, en hold his head 
sideways, he would, en holler: 


“ He in dar, Brer Fox. I done heerd ’im. 
He in dar, sho.’ 

“ En Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat 
holler tree, he did, like a man maulin’ rails, 
twel bimeby atter he got de tree mos’ cut 
thoo, he stop fer ter ketch his bref, en he 
seed Mr. Buzzard laffin’ behine his back, he 
did, en right den en dar, widout gwine enny 
fudder, Brer Fox he smelt a rat. But Mr. 
Buzzard, he keep on holler’n : 

‘“He in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho. 
I done seed ’im.’ 

“ Den Brer Fox, he make like he peepin’ 
up de holler, en he say, sezee : 

“ ‘ Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis 
ain’t Brer Rabbit’s foot hanging down yer.’ 

“ En Mr. Buzzard, he come steppin’ up, he 
did, same ez ef he were treddin’ on kurkle- 
burrs, en he stick his head in de hole; en no 
sooner did he done dat den Brer Fox grab ’im 
Mr. Buzzard flap his wings, en scramble 
roun’ right smartually, he did, but ’twaint no 
use. Brer Fox had de ’vantage er de grip, he 
did, en he hilt ’im right down ter de groun’. 

£ I’ll settle yo’ hash right now,’ sez Brer Fox, 
sezee, en wid dat he grab Mr. Buzzard by de 
tail, he did, en make fer ter dash ’im ’gin de 
groun’, but des ’bout dat time de tail fedders 
come out, en Mr. Buzzard sail off like wunner 
dese yer berloons, en ez he riz, he holler back: 

“ ‘You gimme good start, Brer Fox,’ sezee, 
en Brer Fox sot dar en watch ’im fly outer 
sight.” 





John Habberton. 

Author of “Helen’s Babies.” 



>ANCIES—or if you please, fads—sometimes run wild among 
the reading public, and a work makes what in common par¬ 
lance is called “ a hit,” which at another time might have a 
cool reception. There comes a craze for the historical novel; 
then for the country story ; next, for the detective’s harrowing 
tale ; and public taste vascillates and may be accounted fickle. 

When Mr. Habberton issued his story entitled “ Helen’s Babies,” 
he provided for his readers an amusing and very enjoyable book, and did 
it at a time when the public were ready for it. It struck the popular 
fancy. That work gave him a reputation which he afterward sus¬ 
tained. 

John Habberton was born in Brooklyn, N. Y., February 24, 1842. 
He lived in Illinois from his eighth to his seventeenth year, then went to 
New York, learned to set type in the establishment of Harper & Brothers, 
and subsequently entered their counting-room. In 1862 he enlisted in 
the army as a private, rose to the rank of first lieutenaut, aud served 
through the war. He was again in the employ of the Harpers, from 1865 
to 1872, when he went into business for himself and failed in six months. 
This led him to become a contributor to periodicals, and later to accept 
the post of literary editor of the “ Christian Union,” which he held from 
1874 to 1877, when he resigned to take an editorial position on the New 
York “ Herald.” His first literary work was a series of sketches of west¬ 
ern life. His “ Helen’s Babies,” after being rejected by three publishers, 
was brought out by a Boston house in 1876, and has sold to the extent of 
about three hundred thousand copies in the United States. Eleven 
different English editions of it have appeared, besides several in the 
British colonies, and it has been translated into French, German and 
Italian. 

A few of Mr. Habberton’s other works are “ The Barton Experiment,” 
“ The Jericho Road,” “ The Scripture Club of Valley Rest,” “ Other 
People’s Children,” “ The Crew of the Samuel Weller,” “ The Worst Boy 

394 





JOHN HABBERTON. 395 

in Town,” “ Who was Paul Grayson ?” “ Brneton’s Bayou,” “ Triffsy 
and Trix,” etc. 


BUDGE’S VERSION OP THE FLOOD. 

FROM “HELEN’S BABIES.” 


T HAT afternoon I devoted to making a 
bouquet for Miss Mayton, and a most 
delightful occupation I found it. It 
was no florist’s bouquet, composed of only a 
few kinds of flowers, wired upon sticks, and 
arranged according to geometric pattern. I 
used many a rare flower, too shy of bloom to 
recommend itself to florists; I combined tints 
almost as numerous as the flowers were, and 
perfumes to which city bouquets are utter 
strangers. 

At length it was finished, but my delight 
suddenly became clouded by the dreadful 
thought, “ What will people say ?” Ah! I 
had it. I had seen in one of the library- 
drawers a small pasteboard box, shaped like 
a bandbox ; doubtless that would hold it. I 
found the box; it was of just the size I needed. 
I dropped my card into the bottom—no danger 
of a lady not finding the card accompanying 
a gift of flowers—neatly fitted the bouquet in 
the center of the box, and went in search of 
Mike. He winked cheeringly as I explained 
the nature of his errand, and he whispered : 

“ I’ll do it as clane as a whistle, yer honor. 
Mistress Clarkson’s cook an mesilf understand 
each other, an’ I’m used to goin’ up the back 
way. Niver a man can see but the angles, 
an’ they won’t tell.” 

“ Very well, Mike; here’s a dollar for you; 
you’ll find the box on the hat-rack, in the 
hall.” 

Toddie disappeared somewhere, after sup¬ 
per, and came back very disconsolate. 

“ Can’t find my dolly’s k’adle,” he whined. 
“ Never mind, old pet,” said I, soothingly. 
“ Uncle will ride you on his foot.” 

“But I want my dolly’s k’adle,” said he, 
piteously rolling out his lower lip. 

“ Don’t you want me to tell you a story ?” 
For a moment Toddie’s face indicated a 
terrible internal conflict between old Adam 
and mother Eve; but curiosity finally over¬ 


powered natural depravity, and Toddie mur¬ 
mured : 

“Yesh.” 

“ What shall I tell you about ?” 

“ ’Bout Nawndeark.” 

“ About what ? ” 

“ He means Noah an’ the ark,” exclaimed 
Budge. 

“ Datsh what I shay—Nawndeark,” de¬ 
clared Toddie. 

“ Well,” said I, hastily refreshing my mem¬ 
ory by picking up the Bible—for Helen, like 
most people, is pretty sure to forget to pack 
her Bible when she runs away from home for 
a few days—“ well, once it rained forty days 
and nights, and everybody was drowned from 
the face of the earth excepting Noah, a right¬ 
eous man, who was saved with all his family, 
in an ark which the Lord commanded him to 
build.” 

“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, after con¬ 
templating me with open eyes and mouth for 
at least two minutes after I had finished, “ do 
you think that’s Noah ? ” 

“ Certainly, Budge ; here’s the whole story 
in the Bible.” 

“ Well, I don’t think it’s Noah one single 
bit,” said he, with increasing emphasis. 

“ I’m beginning to think we read different 
Bibles, Budge ; but let’s hear your version.” 

“ Huh?” 

“ Tell me about Noah, if you know so much 
about him.” 

“ I will, if you want me to. Once the Lord 
felt so uncomfortable cos folks was bad that 
he was sorry he ever made anybody, or any 
world or anything. But Noah wasn’t bad; 
the Lord liked him first-rate, so he told Noah 
to build a big ark, and then the Lord would 
make it rain so everybody should be drowned 
but Noah an’ his little boys an’ girls, an’ dog¬ 
gies an’ pussies an’ mamma-cows, and little- 
boy-cows, an’ little-girl-cows and hosses an* 





396 


JOHN HABBERTON. 


everything; they’d go in the ark an’ wouldn’t 
get wetted a bit when it rained. An’ Noah 
took lots of things to eat in the ark— 
cookies, an’ milk, an’ oatmeal, an’ strawber¬ 
ries, an’ porgies, an’—oh, yes, plumpuddings, 
an’ pumpkin-pie. 

“ But Noah didn’t want everybody to get 
drowned, so he talked to folks an’ said, ‘ It’s 
goin’ to rain awful pretty soon; you’d better 
be good, an’ then the Lord’ll let you come 
into my ark.’ An* they jus’ said, ‘Oh ! if it 
rains we’ll go in the house till it stops; ’ an’ 
other folks said, ‘ We ain’t afraid of rain - 
we’ve got an umbrella.’ An’ some more said 
they wasn’t goin’ to be afraid of just a rain. 
But it did rain though, an’ folks went in their 
houses, an’ the water came in, an’ they went 
up stairs, an’ the water came up there, an’ 
they got on the tops of the houses, an’ up in 
big trees, an’ up in mountains, an’ the water 
went after ’em everywhere an’ drownded 
everybody, only just except Noah an’ the 
people in the ark. 

“ An it rained forty days an’ nights, an’ 
then it stopped, an’ Noah got out of the ark, 
an’ he an’ his little boys an’ little girls went 
wherever they wanted to, an’ everything in 
the world was all theirs; there wasn’t any¬ 
body to tell ’em to go home, nor no kinder¬ 
garten schools to go to, nor no bad boys to 
fight ’em, nor nothin’. Now tell us ’nother 
story.” 

“An’ I want my dolly’s k’adle. Ocken 
Hawwy, 1 wants my dolly’s k’adle, tause my 


dolly’s in it, an’ I want to shee her,” inter¬ 
rupted Toddie, 

Just then came a knock at the door. “ Come 
in! ” I shouted. 

In stepped Mike, with an air of the greatest 
secrecy, handed me a letter and the identical 
box in which I had sent the flowers to Miss 
Mayton. What could it mean ? I hastily 
opened the envelope, and at the same time 
Toddie shrieked: 

“ Oh, darsh my dolly’s k’adle—dare tizh! ” 
snatched and opened the box, and displayed— 
his doll! My heart sickened, and did not 
regain its strength during the perusal of the 
following note: 

“ Miss Mayton herewith returns to Mr. Burton the package 
which just arrived, with his card. She recognizes the con¬ 
tents as a portion of the apparent property of one of Mr- 
Burton’s nephews, but is unable to understand why it should 
have been sent to her. 

“June 20,1875.” 

“ Toddie,” I roared, as my younger nephew 
caressed his loathsome doll, and murmured 
endearing words to it, “where did you get 
that box?” 

“ On the hat-wack,” replied the youth, with 
perfect fearlessness. “ I keeps it in ze book¬ 
case djawer, an’ somebody took it ’way an’ 
put nasty ole flowers in it.” 

“Where are those flowers?” I demanded. 

Toddie looked up with considerable sur¬ 
prise, but promptly replied-: 

“I froed ’em away—don’t want no ole 
flowers in my dolly’s k’adle. That’s ze way 
she wocks—see ? ” 


A GREAT TUNE. 


O LD BRAYLEY was a mule-driver in 
the far West, and he was so well satis¬ 
fied with his occupation that never 
but once in twenty years did he venture East 
to visit some relations. When he returned to 
his team and his old associates, two months 
later, he had a head stored with recollections 
which he would drop unexpectedly, one at a 
time, as he and the other drivers for the trans¬ 
portation firm of Jerkem & Co. gathered 
about the stove in their quarters and smoked 
their evening pipes. One evening the old 
man remarked: 


“When I was in New York, I heard the 
durndest tune that ever wuz,” 

“ How does it go ? ” asked Whitefoot, who 
was named for one of his mules, and had a 
deft finger for the banjo. 

“ Go ?” echoed Old Brayley, with a short 
laugh which developed into a series of chuckles 
of considerable duration. “ Go ? ” Then the 
old man’s face sobered and his eyes become 
introspective. 

“ Well, if you’d lieerd a tune a full hour 
long, I wonder what you’d say ef some galoot 
up an’ asked ‘ How did it go ? ’ ” 





JOHN HABBERTON. 


397 


“ But can’t you whistle it ? ” persisted 
Whitefoot. “ I can whistle almost any tune 
I ever heard—whistle some of it, anyhow.” 

“Oh, ye kin, eh? Well, I aint over an’ 
above slow on puckerin’ my lips myself, when 
I hear a good tune on a fiddle or a horn, but 
when a hull lot of fiddles an’ horns is a-goin’ 
at a time, besides half a dozen drums an’ a 
lot of other things that I couldn’t tell the 
names of, if I hed to save my life by doin’ it— 
when all them things plays a tune, why then 
I don’t try to whistle as much as I might.” 

“ Oh, I see. A band played it, eh ? ” 

“ Well, somewhat. A band, or half a dozen 
bands, more like.” 

“ But,” urged Whitefoot, as he took his 
banjo from the wall and began to tune it. “ I 
reckon you can kind o’ get unto the jingle, so 
I can give the boys a taste of it.” 

The old man eyed the banjo as contempt¬ 
uously as if it were a man who drove only a 
single pair of mules instead of a prairie four- 
in-hand ; then he said : 

“ ’Tisn’t the kind of tune that’s got a jingle 
to it. You couldn’t play it on no durned 
banjo, no how.” 

Whitefoot pocketed the insult, for Brayley 
was too old to hit. Then Gloves, a mule- 
driver who read books, sometimes talked about 
the East, shaved every morning, and was 
therefore regarded with some suspicion by his 
associates, said: 

“ Tell us what you remember about it, Mr. 
Brayley, won’t you ? ” 

“ Well,” answered the old man, after several 
vigorous sucks at a refractory pipe, “ it ain’t 
no easy thing to tell about. First, ther’ 
’peared to be three or four tunes mixed up 
together an’ not knowin’ which of ’em was to 
lead the percession. They wasn’t mixed long, 
though; all of a sudden they got a fair start, 
all together, an’ ’twas jest bully. Why, it 
made me feel as if we wuz a-breakin’ camp 
for a long prairie trip where the grass wuz 
good, with plenty of water along the road. 
I’d have give five dollars if I could have got 
up on my seat an’ cracked a whip an’ cussed 
a mule. I felt so good. 

“ All of a sudden, though, an’ jest ez if it 
wuz at a fandango, it kinder ’peared ez ef ther 


must be an infernal row goin’ on somewheres 
an’ fellers thet didn’t want to be into the 
scrimmage needed to light out mighty lively. 
I began to think I’d better make tracks my¬ 
self ; then I got afraid a hull corral of mules 
wuz a-goin’ to stampede. I never vmz such a 
fool, fur of course ther wuzn’t no mules 
within a thousan’ miles of that music. Pooty 
soon, though, the fuss all petered out, an’ I 
kinder felt ez ef I’d gone through the stable 
an’ seen that none of my anamiles wuz in 
trouble, nor none of the harness stolen, nor 
nuthin’—an’ I jest tell you that music made 
me fell mighty comfortable. 

“ But it kept a-goin’ on, an’ a-goin’ on, an’ I 
got to almost b’lievin’ that I was in the quar¬ 
ters here, the mules all fed an’ watered an’ 
the supper a-cookin’—why, lame my leaders if 
I didn’t smell the coffee a-steamin’, an’ the 
pork a fry in’ ez plain ez I ever did in my life, 
though of course nobody wuz a fixin’ grub in 
a high-toned, six-mule concern like that music 
ranch wuz. I kept a feelin’ nicer an’ nicer, 
an’ quieter, till at last it seemed time to turn 
in—th music ’peared to say so, an’ I reckon I 
did turn in, fur after a while a feller wuz a 
shakin’ me, an’ everybody else dug out, an’ 
the band hed made tracks too, so I harnessed 
up an’ lit out myself. But you recollect what 
I tell you, that tune wuz jest a hull corral of 
music.” 

“Can’t you remember the name?” asked 
Gloves, the driver from the East, who had 
listened with great interest to old Brayley’s 
story. 

“ Durned ef I kin,” was the reply, after a 
moment or two of intense thought and head- 
scratching. “ But say—I believe I’ve got the 
bill of fare uv it in my pack. Jest wait a 
minit.” 

The old man arose briskly, rummaged 
through his pack, and finally extracted a 
crumpled programme, which he handed to 
Gloves, who regarded it as eagerly and lovingly 
as if it was a dear old acquaintance, as he 
murmured: 

“ H’m. I might have known it. ‘ Beetho¬ 
ven’s Pastoral Symphony’—Theodore Thomas’ 
Orchestra.” 



Charles Follen Adams. 

Famous for Humorous Dialect. 


R. ADAMS must be credited with having entered a new and 
untried field of authorship, and with having appropriated it 
pretty much to himself. While engaged in business pursuits, 
without any intention of becoming an author in the strict 
meaning of the term, he began to portray the humorous phases 
of the German-American character. His productions at once 
became popular. His skill in the use of English, modified by German 
accent, is apparent in “ Yawcob Strauss,” “ Hans and Fritz,” “ Ah- 
Goo,” “ The Puzzled Dutchman,” etc., and is well nigh inimitable. 

Mr. Adams is a native of the old Bay State, and was born in Dor¬ 
chester April 21, 1842. He received a common school education, and at 
the age of fifteen entered a business house in Boston, where he remained 
until August, 1862. The Civil War was then in progress, and his 
patriotic spirit led him to enlist in a Massachusetts regiment of volun¬ 
teers. His regiment proved its gallanty in a number of bloody battles 
and rendered conspicuous service. 

He was wounded at Gettysburg in 1863, Feld a prisoner for two days, 
and was recaptured by the Federal Army when General Fee abandoned 
the field. The war being ended, he returned to Boston and established a 
successful business. His dialetic poems are what may be called “ a side 
issue.” They were written as the occasion presented itself and the mood 
along with it. It was not until 1872, two years after Mr. Adams had 
published his first poem, that “ The Puzzled Dutchman ” appeared. This 
was followed at intervals by other poems in dialect, which were contributed 
to one or two magazines, until in 1876 he became a regular contributor to 
the “ Detroit Free Press,” and did much to give fame to that humorous 
journal. 

Mr. Adams’ pieces have been widely appropriated for readings and 
recitations, their humor, when well interpreted, rendering them extremely 
popular. As a man he is quite as genial and agreeable as one would 
imagine him to be from his writings. 

398 






CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 


399 


THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 


I ’M a broken-hearted Deutscher, 

Vot’s villed mit crief und shame, 
I dells you vot der drouple ish : . 
I doesn’t know my name. 

You dinks dis fery vunny, eh? 

Ven you der schtory hear, 

You vill not vonder den so mooch, 

It vas so strange and queer. 

Mine moder had dwo leedle twins; 

Dey vas me und mine broder: 

Ve lookt so fery mooch alike, 

No von knew vich vrom toder. 


Von off der poys was “ Yawcob,” 
Und “ Hans ” der Oder’s name: 
But den it made no tifferent: 

Ve both got called der same. 

Veil! von off us got tead— 

Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so! 

But vedder Hans or Yawcob, 
Mine moder she don’t know. 

Und so I am in druples : 

I gan’t kit droo mine hed 
Vedder I’m Hans vot’s lifing, 

Or Yawcob vot is tead ! 


HANS AND FRITZ. 


H ANS and Fritz were two Deutschers who 
lived side by side, 

Remote from the world, its deceit and 
its pride; 

With their pretzels and beer their spare 
moments were spent, 

And the fruits of their labor were peace 
and content. 

Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor one day, 
And, lacking a part of the Geld —as they 
say— 

Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan, 

To help him to pay for his beautiful roan. 

Fritz kindly consented the money to lend, 
And gave the required amount to his friend ; 
Remarking—his own simple language to 
quote— 

“Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note.” 

The note was drawn up in their primitive 
way— 

“I, Haus, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to¬ 
day”— 


When the question arose, the note being 
made, 

“ Vich von holds dot baper until it vas 
baid?” 

“ You geeps dot,” says Fritz, und den you 
vill know 

You owes me dot money.” Says Hans: 
“ Dot ish so: 

Dot makes me remempers I haf dot to bay, 

Und I prings you der note und der money 
some day.” 

A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed, 

Paid back the amount, and from debt he was 
freed. 

Says Fritz, “Now dot settles us.” Hans 
replies, “ Yaw 

Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law ? ” 

“ I geeps dot, now, ain’t it ? ” says Fritz ; “ den 
you see 

I always remempers you baid dot to me.” 

Says Hans, “Dot ish so, it vosnow shust so blain 

Dot I knows vot to do ven I porros again.” 


MR. SCHMIDT’S MISTAKE. 


I geeps me von leedle schtore town Proad- 
way, und does a pooty goot peesnis, bud I 
ton’t got mooch gapital to vork mit, so I 
finds id hard vork to get me all der gredits vot 


I vould like. Last veek I hear aboud some 
goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty 
sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould 
gife me der refusal of dose goots for a gouple 







400 


CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 


a days. He gafe me der refusal—dot is, he 
sait I gouldn’t liaf dem—but hesait he vould 
gall on me und see mine sthore and den if 
mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot berhaps 
ye might do somedings togedder. 

Veil, I vas behint mine gounter yesterday 
ven a shentleman gomes in und dakes me py 
der hant und say: “ Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve,” 

I say, “ yaw,” und den I dinks to mineself, 
dis vas de man vot has dose goots to sell, und I 
musd dry to make some goot imbression mit 
him so ve gould do some peesnis. “Dis vas 
goot schtore,” he says, looking aroundt, “ bud 
you ton’t got a pooty pig schstock already.” 
I vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat 
’bout a tousaud tollars voort off goots in der 
blace, so I says: “You ton’t vould dink I hat 
more as dree tousand tollars in dis leedle 
schtore, aind id?” He says: “You ton’t 
toleme! Vosdotbosssible?” Isays: “Yaw.” 
I meant dot id vas bossible, dough id vasn’t so, 


vor I vas like Shorge Vashingtons ven he cut 
town der “ olt elm,” on Poston Gommons mit 
his leedle hadget, und gouldn’t dell some lies 
aboudtid. 

“ Veil,” says der schentleman, “ I dinks you 
ought to know petter as anypody else vot you 
haf got in der schtore,” und den he dakes a 
leedle book vrom his bocket oudt, und say : 
“ Veil, poots you town vor dree tousand tol- 
tars.” I ask him vat he means py “ poots me 
town,” und den he says he vas von off der 
daxmen, or assessors off broperty, und he 
tank me so kindly as nefer vos, pecause, he say, 
I vos sooch an honest Deutscher, und tidn’t 
dry und sheat der goferments. 

I dells you vat it vos, I tidn’t veel any more 
petter as a hundord ber cent., ven dot man 
valks oudt off mine schtore, und der nexd 
dime I makes free mit sdrangers, I vinds first 
deir peesnis oudt. 


“AH-GOO! ’ 


V AT vas id mine baby vas trying to say, 

Ven I goes to hees crib at der preak of 
der day ? 

Und oudt vrom der planket peeps ten leedle 
toes, 

So pink und so shveet as der fresh plooming 
rose, 

Und twisting und curling dhemselves all 
aboudt, 

Shust like dey vas saying: “ Ve vant to get 
oudt! ” 

Vhile dot baby looks oup, mit dhose bright 
eyes so plue, 

Und don’d could say nodings; shust only : 
“ Ah-goo! ” 

Vot vos id mine baby vas dinking aboudt, 
Vhen dot thumb goes so qvick in hees shveet 
leedle mout” 

Und he looks right avay like he no under- 
shtandt 

Der reason he don’d could quite shvallow 
hees handt; 


Und he digs mit dhose fingers righdt into 

hees eyes, 

Vhich fills hees oldt fader mit fear und 
surbrise; 

Und vhen mit dhose shimnasdic dricks he 
vas droo, 

He lay back und crow, und say nix budt: 
“ Ah-goo! ” 

Vot makes dot shmall baby shmile vhen he’s 
ashleep; 

Does he dink he vas blaying mit some von, 
“ bopeep ? ” 

Der nurse say dhose shmiles vas der sign he 
haf colic— 

More like dot he dhreams he vas hafing some 
frolic; 

I feeds dot oldt nurse mit creen abbles some 
day, 

Und dhen eef she shmiles, I pelief vot she 
say; 

Vhen dot baby got cramps he find somedhing 
to do 

Oxcept shmile, und blay, und keep oup hees: 
“Ah-goo!” 





CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 


401 


I ask me, somedimes, vhen I looks in dot crib : 

“Vill der shirdt-frondt von day, dake der 
blace off dot bib ? 

Vill dot plue-eyed baby, dot’s pooling mine 
hair, 

Know all vot I knows aboudt drouble und 
care ? ” 


Dhen I dink off der vorldt, mit its pride und 
its sins, 

Und I vish dot mineself und dot baby vaa 
tvins, 

Und all der day long I haf nodings to do 
But shust laugh und crow, und keep saying: 
“ Ah-goo! ” 


YAWCOB STRAUSS. 


I HAF von tunny leedle poy, 

Vot gomes schust to mine knee ; 

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, 
As efer you dit see. 

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings 
In all barts off der house: 

But vot off dot? he vas mine son 
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He get der measles und der mu mbs, 

Und eferyding dot’s oudt; 

He sbills mine glass off lager bier, 

Poots schnuff indo mine kraut. 

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese— 

Dot vas der roughest chouse: 

I’d dake dot vrom no oder boy 
But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He dakes der milk-pan for a dhrum, 

Und cuts mine cane in dwo. 

To make der schticks to beat it mit,— 

Mine cracious dot vas drue! 

26 


I dinks mine hed vas schplit apart, 

He kicks oup sooch a touse: 

But nefer mind; der boys vas few 
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 

He asks me questions sooch as dese: 

Who baints mine nose so red ? 

Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt 
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? 

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 
Vene’er der glim I douse. 

How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? 

I somedimes dink I schall go vild 
Mit sooch a grazy poy, 

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, 
Und beaceful dimes enshoy; 

But ven he vas ashleep in ped, 

So guiet as a mouse, 

I prays der Lord, “ Dake anyding, 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.” 






Edward Payson Roe. 

Writer of Religious Novels. 


iH aims and good moral purposes are not incompatible with 
fiction. The story itself is not true, but is true to life; the ] 
characters and situations in the narrative are fictitious, but ■ 
they are such as might have been. In a profound sense, there- ] 
fore, the tale is true, and there are novelists of higher repute 
who have constantly endeavored to impart moral lessons to , 
their readers and noble rules of conduct. Mr. Roe is one of these. He , 
is not a Dickens, or Irving, or Warner, or Howells, or “ Grace Green- i 
wood,” but his works have been very popular, one reason of which is due 
to their decided moral tone. * No religious instinct, no requisite of good 
taste, is ever offended. 

Mr. Roe was born at New Windsor, N. Y., in 1838. He pursued 
his studies at Williams College, Massachusetts, but owing to impaired 
eyesight was not able to graduate. He entered the ministry of the Pres¬ 
byterian Church, and from 1865 to 1874 was a pastor at Highland Falls, 

N. Y. Previous to this he served as chaplain in the Federal army 
throughout the Civil War. His distinction as an author was such that 
after a number of years Williams College conferred upon him the degree 
of A. B. 

In 1871 occurred the great Chicago fire. Mr. Roe seized upon this 
tragic event as the subject for his first novel, which was entitled “ Barriers 
Burned Away.” Its success was immediate, and it has been stated by 
competent critics that it contains perhaps the most accurate description 
of the terrible conflagration that has ever been pnblished. The author 
pictures the frightful scenes vividly and enthralls the attention of the 
reader with his graphic portrayal of the appalling catastrophe. 

After 1874 Mr. Roe devoted himself almost entirely to literary work 
up to the time of his death, which occurred at Cornwall, N. Y., in 1888. 

He was a good deal of an agriculturist and employed his leisure time on 
a small fruit farm in the cultivation of garden produce for the market. 

This was doubtless more for a pastime than for any pecuniary gain, as 
402 







EDWARD PAYSON ROE 


403 


the large sale of his works was profitable, over 750,000 copies of his 
various stories having been printed and sold before his death. 

Other works of Mr. Roe after “ Barriers Burned Away,” are “ Play 
and Profit in my Garden,” 1873 ; “ What Can She Do ? ’’ 1873 ; “ Open¬ 
ing a Chestnut Burr,” 1874 ; “ From Jest to Earnest,” 1875 ; “ Near to 
Nature’s Heart,” 1876; “ A Knight of the Nineteenth Century,” 1877; 
“ A Face Illumined,” 1878; “ A Day of Fate,” 1880; “ Success with 
Small Fruits,” 1880; “Without a Home,” 1880; “His Sombre Rivals,” 
1883 ; “ A Young Girl’s Wooing,” 1884; “ Nature’s Serial Story,” 1884; 
“ An Original Belle,” 1885 ; “ Driven Back to Eden,” 1885 ; “ He Fell in 
Eove with His Wife,” 1886; “ The Earth Trembled,” 1887 ; “ Miss Lou,” 
1888 ; “ The Home Acre,” 1889 ; and “ Taken Alive,” 1889, the last two 
mentioned being published after the death of the author. 


THE BLIND GOD. 

FROM “A FACE ILLUMINED.” 

! COPYRIGHT, DODD, MEAD & CO. 


( C T HAVE seen myself in the strong, sharp 
light of truth. If you are willing to 
be my friend, please be an honest one. 
My faithful old friend in the country would 
scarcely take my portrait if this perfect 
flower were introduced with any such mean¬ 
ing as you attach to it, and I certainly would 
be ashamed to give it to him. Mr. Van Berg, 
we must let bygones be bygones, or we never 
can get on. See how absurdly I have acted 
both yesterday and to-day, and all through 
recalling the past. Indeed, indeed, it will 
never do for me to come here again, and if 
you can make such a marvellous likeness of 
Mr. Eltinge as you have, I scarcely think 
there will be any need.” 

“ My success with Mr. Eltinge’s portrait is 
the result of a few happy strokes that I might 
not be able to give again if I tried a year. 
Believe me, Miss Mayhew, I not only wish to 
be an honest friend, but a very considerate 
one. I promise never to urge you to do any¬ 
thing that will cause you pain. I can under¬ 
stand how the features of your kind friend 
have touched the tenderest chords of your 
heart, and I respect your sturdy fidelity to 


your conscience in refusing to let me paint 
this bud in your hair; but you must also do 
me the justice to believe that I meant no 
hollow compliment when I searched for it 
among the florists. Must I throw this one 
away, too ? ” he asked, with a glance that was 
very ardent for a friend ; “ for since I obtained 
it for you, it must receive its fate at your 
hands only.” 

“I’ll wear it simply as your gift, with 
pleasure,” and she fastened it in her breastpin, 
so that its crimson blush rested against the 
snowy whiteness of her neck. 

He looked her full in the eyes as he said 
earnestly, “ It is still the emblem of one thing, 
and you cannot help it—of my respect for you.” 

Her eyes fell guiltily, and the color deep¬ 
ened in her face as she turned hastily away, 
and said, with low, sad emphasis : “ I do not 
deserve such respect.” Then the knowledge 
that she was harboring a purpose which 
troubled her conscience, but which she could 
not abandon, became the cause of a trace of 
her old recklessness of manner. She assumed 
a sudden gayety, as if she had stepped out of 
shadows into too strong a light, as she said : 




404 


EDWARD PAYSON ROE. 


** Mr. Van Berg, you may well hesitate to 
bring the appetite you say you had last night 
to our house this evening, and if I stay a 
moment longer, you will get no dinner at all. 

I have not been after the crude material as 
you call it—yet, and I’m told that there is 
not a man living so amiable or philosophical, 
but that a poor dinner provokes a martyr-like 
expression, if nothing worse; ’ and with a 
! smile and piquancy of manner that seemed 
peculiarly brilliant against the background of 
her deep and repressed feeling, she left him. 

He tried to return to his work, but found 
himself once more possessed by the demon of 
unrest and impatience. The spiritual wave 
that had been lifting him higher and higher 
was changing its character and becoming a 
smoothly gliding current. It was so irresisti¬ 
ble that he never thought of resisting. Why 
should he resist ? he asked himself. 

Circumstances had interested him in this 
rare Undine before she received a woman’s 
soul; circumstances had entangled his life and 
hers in what had almost been an awful 
tragedy; and now circumstances, or some¬ 
thing "far beyond, were swiftly developing 
before his eyes a spiritual loveliness that was 
the counterpart of her outward beauty, and he 
assured himself that it would be the greatest 
folly of his life to lose a trace of the exquisite 
process that he might be privileged to see. 
What artist or poet has not pictured to him¬ 
self the fair face of Eve as God first breathed 
into her perfect clay the breath of life, or has 
not, in imagination, seen the closed eyes open¬ 
ing in surprise and intelligence or kindling 
with the light of love ? 

And yet the change in Ida Mayhew seemed 
to Van Berg far more wonderful and interest¬ 
ing ; and to his fancy if, instead of lying in 
the beauty of her breathless, statuesque prepa¬ 
ration for life, Eve had been possessed by a 
legion of distorting imps, she would have been 
the type of the maiden he first had recognized. 
But he had seen these evil spirits exorcised, 
and in their place was coming a noble, 
womanly soul—sweet, tender, and strong — 
and the perfect form and features seemed but 
a transparent mould, a crystal vase into which 
heaven was pouring a new and divine life. 


Why should he not long to escape from the 
dusty matter-of-fact world and witness this 
spiritual repetition of the most beautiful story 
of the past? Thus his philosophical mind 
was able once more to reason the whole mat¬ 
ter out clearly and prove that his wish to 
annihilate the intervening hours before he 
could dare to present himself to Ida Mayhew ? 
was the most natural and proper desire imag¬ 
inable. He concluded that a walk through 
Central Park might banish his disquietude, 
and leave time for a careful toilet, since for 
some occult reason the occasion seemed to him 
to require unusual preparation. 

He knew he was unfashionably early when 
he rang Mr. Mayhew’s door-bell, but he had 
found it impossible to curb his impatience to 
see in what new aspect Ida would present her¬ 
self that evening. A hundred times he had 
queried how she would appear in her own 
home, how she would preside as hostess, and 
whether the taste of the florid and fashionable 
mother would not be so apparent as to annoy 
him like a bad tone in the picture. It be¬ 
came evident that the worshipper of beauty 
was in the presence of his divinity, and his 
every glance burned incense to her honor. 

She had twined a few rose-leaves in her 
hair, but wore no other ornament save the 
rose he had given her in the morning, which 
evidently had been kept carefully for the 
occasion, for it was unchanged, with the 
exception that it revealed its heart a little 
more openly, as did Ida herself. And yet she 
did her best to insure that her manner should 
be no more cordial than her character of 
hostess demanded. 

But in spite of all she could do, the light of 
exultation and intense joy would flash into 
her eyes and tremble in her tones that eve¬ 
ning. A maiden would have been blind 
indeed had she not been able to read the rid¬ 
dle of Van Berg’s ardent friendship now, and 
Ida had seen that expression too often not to 
know its meaning well. In the morning she 
had strongly hoped, now she believed. She 
no longer walked by faith but in full vision, 
and she trod with the grace of a queen who 
knows her power in the realm that woman 
loves best. 





Amelia Barr. 

Distinguished Novelist. 



RS. BARR’S maiden name was Huddleston, and she was bom 
at Ulverton, Lancashire, England, March 29,1831. Her father 
was a clergyman, and a good part of her education was derived 
from assisting him by reading and in other ways. However, 
she attended school in Glasgow for a time, and in 1850 
married Robert, son of Rev. John Barr, a pastor of the 
Scottish Free Kirk. 

In 1854 the family came to the United States and resided in Austin, 
Texas, and later in Galveston. Her husband died in 1869, and his 
death was followed by that of three sons, the mother then being left 
with three daughters. She removed to New York, where she became a 
governess, and having fitted several sons of a prominent merchant for 
college, began to look about for some means of livelihood. 

Through the influence of Lyman Abbott and Henry Ward Beecher, 
some of her sketches and articles were accepted by the Harpers, and with 
this introduction she became a permanent contributor to the periodicals 
of this house. Her quick perceptions, broad sympathies with common 
life, cultivated literary taste, descriptive powers and occasional touch of 
humor, rendered her writings acceptable to a large number of readers. 

In 1884 she met with an accident which for some time laid her aside. 
During this period she wrote “Jan Vedder’s Wife,” and its quick success 
encouraged her to write other novels. In a short time she brought out 
“ A Daughter of Fife,” “ A Bow of Orange Ribbon,” “ She Loved a 
Sailor,” “A Sister of Esau,” and many other works of fiction. Her 
industry is apparent and few modern writers have had so large and 
appreciative a circle of readers. Her success is evidence that multiplied 
sorrow and bereavements may be vanquished by a firm faith and courage 
and need not be allowed to interfere with one’s ordinal occupations and 
pursuits. 

During the latter part of her life Mrs. Barr has resided on the Storm 
King Mountain at Comwall-on-the-Hudson, where, amidst fine scenery 

405 





406 


AMELIA BARR. 


and in that retirement which is favorable to literary work, she has written 
several of the romances that have given her fame. 


AT .AN AND FLORA. 

FROM “SOULS OF PASSAGE” 

COPYRIGHT, DODD, MR AD & CO. 


6 i \ r OU are content to go, Ian ? ” 

“ I am like the pilgrim, ‘ I feel the 
bottom and it is good.’ I am only 
returning the divine part of me to the Divine 
who gave it.” 

“And then ? ” 

“ The sun that knows its setting will know 
its rise again. I am feeling already through 
this poor, perishing flesh shoots of my immor¬ 
tality.” 

“And you have no fear ? ” 

“ Fear is lost in faith. I die that I may be 
bom. If I did not know that I should be a 
most forlorn pilgrim. I was once reading of 
a great v ikin g who asked a wise man, ‘ What 
is life?’ And the wise man answered, * It is 
like a bird that flies out of the dark through 
a hall full of light, out into the darkness 
again.’ Oh, no! We are, indeed, souls of 
passage, but we know whence we come and 
where we are going. It is not out of the 
dark and into the dark. We come from God, 
who is our home; He guides us through the 
lighted hall of life, and brings us safely back 
to Himself. They who have loved the Father 
of their spirits in life will be finding no diffi¬ 
culty in going to Him when life is over. But 
not alone shall 1 go; there are friends wait¬ 
ing for me; they will see that I do not tarry 
or tremble through boundless space and count¬ 
less constellations.” 

These words, spoken with long intervals 
and ever-increasing weakness, were very near 
the last. Just before dawn he cried with a 
strange glad strength, “I am going now— 
I have long been eager for rest.” A solemn 
pallor spread over his face, a dying breath 
fluttered through the room, and Ian was gone 
—gone away farther than human thought 
could follow him. A sudden feeling of aliena¬ 
tion, a sense of incalcuable distance was now 


between them, and Mackenzie was keenly 
sensitive to it; but he waited until the great 
silence and the unchanging outline beneath 
the coverlet told him visibly the truth of 
their separation. 

The sun was then shining brightly, the 
ocean breaking solemnly almost at the thres¬ 
hold ; there were some fishermen just putting 
out to sea, and there was a faint sound of 
rowers striking the waves in harmony; but 
around and above all a sense of noble repose 
that was not of this world. Walking thought¬ 
fully through the village, he met Shaw McDuff 
driving in a very splendid carriage with a 
handsome, middle-aged woman. 

Then he remembered that Peter had been 
boasting round the countryside that “ his son 
Shaw was going to marry a widow lady 
whose money could not be counted by the 
ordinary tables of addition ; moreover, a lady 
of the noble family of Farquarson.” 

And though Mackenzie’s heart was beating 
to the most tender and solemn thoughts, he 
looked at the lady and at the haughty young 
man reclining at her side, and knew that, for 
once, Peter’s boasting had truth in it. And 
this strange meeting of death and life moved 
him very much, and he was thinking of it 
and of two lines of Milton’s, which Macrae 
had once quoted to him on some such occasion: 

“ What if earth be but the shadow of heaven 
and things therein, 

Each to the other like more than on earth is 
thought ? ” 

when he met Alan coming down the moun¬ 
tain. 

“ He is gone, father.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ At what time ? ” 

“ I do not know. He was here, and when 





AMELIA BARR. 


407 


I looked again his soul had flitted away. 
Good men dying whisper to their souls to go, 
and they vanish from bodies unseen. Macrae 
has now ‘ tasted of the powers of the world 
to come. ’ ” 

“ I had a long talk with him two days ago, 
but I wish now that I had called yester¬ 
day.” 

“ You had a long talk? What did he say 
to you ? ” 

“ He spoke of the happiness that had come 
into my life, and asked me what I w as going 
to do with it? Then I told him all Flora’s 
and my own plans for the good of the people 
around us, and he asked again, ‘ But for your¬ 
self what ? ’ And I said I was going to read 
the classics carefully and study chemistry, 
because I had a great wish to find out some 
of its secrets. And he answered me strangely.” 

“ How did he answer you? ” 

“ He told me to remember that my higher 
self was ‘ clothed in a coat of skin,’ and 
‘crucified in the bonds of the flesh,’ and that 
the most brilliant intellectuality would not 
remove me from the animal plane to the 
safety of spiritual existence. He told me 
that the personal ego depended on the higher 
for its promise of eternal life. He told me 
I must develop spiritually as well as men¬ 


tally, and so illumine this daily life with 
unselfish deeds that it would remain through¬ 
out eternal years a pleasant memory to my 
higher self.” 

“ That is all logical, Alan; for animal 
causes cannot be followed by spiritual effects 
— the stream cannot rise higher than its 
j source. What else, Alan? ” 

“He told me that my higher self over¬ 
shadowed my personal self, and continually 
struggled to penetrate and illumine its dark¬ 
ness, and that, therefore, it was my first and 
greatest duty to help in this birth and growth 
of spiritual life by yielding a willing and 
loving obedience and by treasuring every 
glimmering ray of divine light, even though 
it took the form of pain or rebuke. He told 
me to do this with confidence and hope, 
because no effort is lost; and that soul force, 
like other forms of force, is always conserved. 
And there is one thing he said to me as I 
bade him farewell that I shall never forget — 
‘ Remember, Alan, that this soul, this higher 
self of yours, is like a white bird in your 
breast. You must carry it through a sinful, 
crowded, impure world: oh, take care of the 
bird in your breast! When the time of your 
departure comes, let it go free with unsullied 
wings.’ ” 






Edgar William Nye. 

Writer of Humorous Sketches. 


HIS celebrated Humorist, who was known to tke reading public 
as “ Bill Nye,’’ the signature over which his articles were 
written, was born at Shirley, Piscataqua County, Me., August 
25, 1850. He was educated at River Falls, Wis., and removed 
to Wyoming, where he studied law and was admitted to the 
bar in 1876. He began early to contribute humorous sketches 
to the papers, and was connected with various western journals. It was 
while he was editor of the Laramie “ Boomerang,” however, that his 
fame spread beyond the confines of the West. 

He was finally induced to settle in New York, where he contributed 
to the New York “ World ” and to a number of other prominent papers. 
He made a tour of Europe in search of health and also lectured in all of 
the leading cities of the country. His writings have been issued in 
book form under the following titles: “ Bill Nye and Boomerang,” 
“ The Forty Liars,” “ Baled Hay ” and “ Remarks.” He died at his fine 
country residence at Asheville, N. C., which he had occupied but a few 
seasons, February 22, 1896. 



THE PHOTOGRAPH HABIT. 


N O doubt the photograph habit, when 
once formed, is one of the most bane¬ 
ful, and productive of the most intense 
suffering in after years of any with which we 
are familiar. Sometimes it seems to me that 
my whole life has been one long, abject apology 
for photographs that I have shed abroad 
throughout a distracted country. 

Man passes through seven distinct stages of 
being photographed, each one exceeding all 
previous efforts in that line. 

First he is photographed as a prattling, 
bald-headed baby, absolutely destitute of 
eyes, but making up for this deficiency by a 
408 


wealth of mouth that would make a negro 
minstrel olive green with envy. We often 
wonder what has given the average photogra¬ 
pher that wild, hunted look about the eyes 
and that joyless sag about the knees. The 
chemicals and the indoor life alone have not 
done all this. It is the great nerve tension 
and mental strain used in trying to photo¬ 
graph a squirming child with white eyes, in 
such a manner as to please its parents. 

An old-fashioned dollar-store album with 
cerebro-spinal meningitis, and filled with pic¬ 
tures of half-suffocated children in heavily- 
starched white dresses, is the first thing we 






EDGAR WIEUAM NYE. 


409 


seek on entering a home, and the last thing 
from which we reluctantly part. 

The second stage on the downward road is 
the photograph of the boy with fresh-cropped 
hair, and in which the stiff and protuberant 
thumb takes a leading part. 

Then follows the portrait of the lad with 
strongly marked freckles and a look of hope¬ 
less melancholy. With the aid of a detective 
agency I have succeeded in running down 
and destroying several of these pictures which 
were attributed to me. 

Next comes the young man, 21 years of 
age, with his front hair plastered smoothly 
down over his tender, throbbing dome of 
thought. He does not care so much about 
the expression on the mobile features, so long 
as his left hand, with the new ring on it, 
shows distinctly, and the string of jingling 
charms on his watch chain, including the cute 
little basket cut out of a peach stone, stand 
out well in the foreground. If the young 
man would stop to think for a moment that I 
some day he may become eminent and ashamed 
of himself, he would hesitate about doing this. 
Soon after, he has a tin-type taken, in which 
a young lady sits in the alleged grass, while 
he stands behind her with his hand lightly 
touching her shoulder as though he might be 
feeling of the thrilling circumference of a 
buzz-saw. He carries this picture in his 
pocket for months, and looks at it whenever 
he may be unobserved. 

He then, in a fickle moment, allows himself 
to be photographed, because he is afraid he 
may not live through another long, hard 


winter, and the boys would like a picture of 
him while he is able to climb the dark, nar¬ 
row stairs which lead to the artist’s room. 

Sadly the thought comes back to you in 
after years, when his grave is green in the 
quiet valley, and the worn and weary hands 
that have toiled for you are forever at rest; 
how patiently he submitted while his daughter 
pinned the clean, stiff, agonizing white collar 
about his neck and brushed the little flakes of 
“ dander ” from the velvet collar of his best 
coat; how he toiled up the long lonesome 
stairs, not with the egotism of a half century 
ago, but with the light of anticipated rest at 
last in his eye ; obediently as he would go to 
the dingy law office to have his will drawn, 
he meekly leaves the outlines of his kind old 
face for those he loved and for whom he has 
so long labored. 

It is a picture at which the thoughtless may 
smile, but it is full of pathos, and eloquent for 
those who knew him best. His attitude is 
stiff, and his coat hunches up in the back, but 
his kind old heart asserts itself through the 
gentle eyes, and when he has gone away at 
last we do not criticize the picture any more, 
but beyond the old coat that hunches up in 
the back, and that lasted him so long, we 
read the history of a noble life. 

Silently the old finger-marked album, lying 
so unostentatiously on the gouty centre table, 
points out the mile-stones from infancy to age, 
and back of the mistakes of a struggling 
photographer is betrayed the laughter and 
the tears, the joy and the grief, the dimples 
and the gray hairs of one man’s life time. 


HOW WILLIAM 

HEN I was young and used to roam 
around over the country, gathering 
water-melons in the light of the 
moon, I used to think I could milk anybody’s 
cow, but I do not think so now. I do not 
milk a cow now unless the sign is right, and 
it hasn’t been right for a good many years. 
The last cow I tried to milk was a common 
cow, born in obscurity; kind of a self-made 
cow. I remember her brow was low, but she 


MILKED A COW. 

wore her tail high and she was haughty, oh, 
so haughty. 

I made a common-place remark to her, one 
that is used in the very best of society, one 
that need not have given offence anywhere. 
I said, “ So ”—and she “ soed.” Then I told 
her to “ hist ” and she histed. But I thought 
she overdid it. She put too much expression 
in it. 

Just then I heard something crash through 








410 


EDGAR WILLIAM NYE. 


the window of the barn and fall with a dull, 
sickening thud on the outside. The neigh¬ 
bors came to see what it was that caused the 
noise. They found that I had done it in get¬ 
ting through the window. 

I asked the neighbors if the barn was still 
standing. They said it was. Then I asked if 
the cow was injured much. They said she 


seemed to be quite robust. Then I requested 
them to go in and calm the cow a little, and see 
if they could get my plug hat off her horns. 

I am buying all my milk now of a milk¬ 
man. I select a gentle milkman who will not 
kick, and feel as though I could trust him. 
Then, if he feels as though he could trust me, 
it is all right. 


MR. WHISK’S LITTLE TRICK. 


S O she said to him: “ Oh, darling, I fear 
that my wealth hath taught thee 
to love me, and if it were to take 
wings unto itself thou wouldst also do the 
same.” 

“Hay, Gwendolin,” said Mr. Whisk,softly, 
as he drew her head down upon his shoulder 
and tickled the lobe of her little cunning ear 
with the end of his moustache, “ I love not 
thy dollars, but thee alone. Also elsewhere. 
If thou doubtest me, give thy wealth to the 
poor. Give it to the World’s Fair. Give it 
to the Central Pacific Railroad. Give it to 
any one who is suffering.” 


“ No,” she unto him straightway did make 
answer, “ I could not do that, honey.” 

“ Then give it to your daughter,” said Mr. 
Whisk, “ If you think I am so low as to love 
alone your yellow dross. ” He then drew him¬ 
self up to his full height. 

She flew to his arms like a frightened dove 
that has been hit on the head with a rock. 
Folding her warm round arms about his neck, 
she sobbed with joy and gave her entire for¬ 
tune to her daughter. 

Mr. Whisk then married the daughter, and 
went on about his business. I sometimes think 
that, at the best, man is a great coarse thing. 


DISCOVERY OF NEW YORK. 


A BOUT this time a solitary horseman 
might have been seen at West Two 
Hundred and Ninth street, clothed in 
a little brief authority, and looking out to 
the west as he petulantly spoke in the Tam¬ 
many dialect. As he stands there aboard of 
his horse one sees that he is a chief in every 
respect, and in life’s great drama would 
naturally occupy the middle of the stage. It 
was at this moment that Hudson slipped 
down the river from Albany past Fort Lee, 
and, dropping a nickle in the slot at One 
Hundred and Twenty-fifth street, weighed his 
anchor at that place. As soon as he had 
landed and discovered the city, he was ap¬ 
proached by the chief, who said: “We gates. 
I am on the committee to show you our little 
town. I suppose you have a power of attorney, 
of course, for discovering us ? ” 


“ Yes,” said Hudson. 

“ Very good,” said the chief, as they jogged 
down-town on a Sixth Avenue elevated train 
towards the wigwams on Fourteenth street, 
and going at the rate of four miles an hour. 
“We do not care especially who discovers us 
so long as we hold control of the city organi¬ 
zation. How about that, Hank ? ” 

“ That will be satisfactory,” said Mr. Hud¬ 
son, taking a package of imported cheese and 
eating it, so that they could have the car to 
themselves. 

Thus was New York discovered via Albany 
and Fort Lee, and five minutes after the two 
touched glasses, the brim of the schoppin and 
the Manhattan cocktail tinkled together, and 
New York was inaugurated. 







John Pierpont. 


Author of “Airs of Palestine.” 


stately movement, scholarly finish and elevated sentiment, 
Rev. John Pierpont’s poems excel and are an important part of 
our poetical treasures. 

The author of the “Airs of Palestine,” is a native of Litch¬ 
field, Connecticut, and was born on the sixth of April, 1785. 
His great-grandfather, the Reverend James Pierpont, was the 
second minister of New Haven, and one of the founders of Yale College; 
his grandfather and his father were men of intelligence and integrity; 
and his mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Collins, had a mind 
thoroughly imbued with the religious sentiment, and was distinguished 
for her devotion to maternal duties. In the following lines, from one of 
his poems, he acknowledges the influence of her example and teachings 
on his own character: 

“ She led me first to God; 

Her words and prayers were my young spirit’s dew. 

For, when she used to leave 
The fireside, every eve, 

I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew. 

“ That dew, that blessed my youth,— 

Her holy love, her truth, 

Her spirit of devotion, and the tears 
That she could not suppress,— 

Hath never ceased to bless 
My soul, nor will it, through eternal years.” 

Mr. Pierpont graduated at Yale College in 1804, and afterward studied 
law, which, however, he soon abandoned. In 1816 the publication of his 
“ Airs of Palestine” gave him wide reputation, yet he did not enter upon 
authorship as a profession. He studied theology at Harvard and in 1819 
was ordained pastor of the Hollis Street Church, Boston. In 1835 
made the tour of Europe, also visiting Greece and Asia Minor. He was 
a prominent advocate of reforms, including temperance and anti-slavery. 
In 1845 he became minister of the Unitarian Church of Medford. 




412 


JOHN PIERPONT. 


The “ Airs of Palestine ” is a poem of about eight hundred lines, in 
the heroic measure, in which the influence of music is shown by exam¬ 
ples, principally from sacred history. The religious sublimity of the 
sentiments, the beauty of the language, and the finish of the versification, 
placed it at once, in the judgment of all competent to form an opinion on 
the subject, before any poem at that time produced in America. As a 
work of art, it would be nearly faultless, but for the occasional introduc¬ 
tion of double rhymes, a violation of the simple dignity of the ten-syllable 
verse, induced by the intention of the author to recite it in a public 
assembly. 

He says in the preface to the third edition, that he was “ aware how 
difficult even a good speaker finds it to rehearse heroic poetry, for any 
length of time, without perceiving in his hearers the somniferous effects 
of a regular cadence,” and “ the double rhyme was, therefore, occasionally 
thrown in, like a ledge of rocks in a smoothly gliding river, to break the 
current, which, without it, might appear sluggish, and to vary the melody 
which might otherwise become monotonous.” The following passage, 
dscriptive of a moonlight scene in Italy, will give the reader an idea of 
its manner: 


“ Hark !—’tis a convent’s bell: its midnight chime; 
For music measures even the march of time:— 

O’er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, 

Gray turrets rise:—the eye can catch no more. 

The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, 

Suspends his oar :—a low and solemn swell, 

From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies. 

Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. 

What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night? 

A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white, 

Chant round a sister’s dark and narrow bed, 

To charm the parting spirit of the dead. 

Triumphant is the spell! with raptured ear, 

That uncaged spirit hovering, lingers near ;— 

Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss? 
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this !” 


“ Many of bis hymns, odes and other brief poems,” says Griswold, 
“ are remarkably spirited and melodious.” Mr. Pierpont in his ripe age 
was strikingly venerable in appearance and continued in active pursuits 
until his death, which occurred in 1866. 


JOHN PIERPONT. 


413 


WARREN’S 


S TAND! the ground’s your own, my 
braves ! 

Will ye give it up to slaves ? 

Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 

What’s the mercy despots feel ? 

Hear it in that battle-peal! 

Read it on yon bristling steel! 

Ask it,—ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 

Will ye to your homes retire ? 

Look behind you !—they’re afire! 

And, before you, see 


ADDRESS. 

Who have done it! From the vale 
On they come!—and will ye quail? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 
Let their welcome be! 

In the God of battles trust! 

Die we may,—and die we must: 
But, O, where can dust to dust 
Be consigned so well, 

As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot’s bed, 

And the rocks shall raise their head, 
Of his deeds to tell ? 


THE EXILE AT REST. 


H IS falchion flashed along the Nile ; 

His hosts he led through Alpine 
snows; 

O’er Moscow’s towers, that shook the while, 
His eagle flag unrolled—and froze. 

Here sleeps he now alone : not one 
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 

Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son, 

Hath ever seen or sought his grave. 

Here sleeps he now alone; the star 
That led him on from crown to crown 
Hath sunk; the nations from afar 
Gazed as it faded and went down. 

He sleeps alone : the mountain cloud 

That night hangs round him, and the breath 


Of morning scatters, is the shroud 
That wraps his mortal form in death. 

High is his couch ; the ocean flood 
Far, far below by storms is curled, 

As round him heaved, while high he stood, 

A stormy and inconstant world. 

Hark ! Comes there from the Pyramids, 
And from Siberia’s wastes of snow, 

And Europe’s fields, a voice that bids 
The world he awed to mourn him ? No : 

The only, the perpetual dirge 

That’s heard there, is the seabird’s cry, 

The mournful murmur of the surge, 

The cloud’s deep voice, the wind’s low sigh. 


MY CHILD. 


J CANNOT make him dead ! 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study chair; 
Yet when my eyes, now dim 
With tears, I turn to him, 

The vision vanishes—he is not there! 

I walk my parlor floor, 

And, through the open door, 

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; 

I’m stepping toward the hall 
To give the boy a call; 

And then bethink me that—he is not there ! 


I thread the crowded street; 

A satchelled lad I meet, 

With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; 
And, as he’s running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 

Scarcely believing that—he is not there! 

I know his face is hid 
Under the coffin lid ; 

Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair; 
My hand that marble felt; 

O’er it in prayer I knelt; 

Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there! 







414 


JOHN PIERPONT. 


I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 

So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 
Seek him inquiringly, 

Before the thought comes that—he is not there! 

When, at the cool gray break 
Of day, from sleep 1 wake, 

With my first breathing of the morning air 
My soul goes up, with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy ; [there ! 
Then comes the sad thought that—he is not 

When at the day’s calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 

I’m with his mother, offering up our prayer; 
Whate’er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 

For our boy’s spirit, though—he is not there! 


Not there! —Where, then, is he? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he use to wear. 

The grave, that now doth press 
Upon that cast-off dress, 

Is but his wardrobe locked—he is not there! 

He lives! —In all the past 
He lives ; nor, to the last, 

Of seeing him again will I despair; 

In dreams I see him now; 

And, on his angel brow, 

I see it written, “ Thou shalt see me there l 

Yea, we all live to God! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirit land, 

Meeting at that right hand, 

’Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there! 


NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

“To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country,—that would not be hard.”— The Neighbors. 


O NO, no,—let me lie 

Not on a field of battle when I die! 
Let not the iron tread 

Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head ; 

Nor let the reeking knife, 

That I have drawn against a brother’s life, 

Be in mine hand when Death 
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath 
His heavy squadron’s heels. 

Or gory felloes of his cannon’s wheels. 

From such a dying bed, 

Though o’er it float the stripes of white and 
red, 

And the bald eagle brings 
The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings 
To sparkle in my sight, 

O, never let my spirit take her flight.! 

I know that beauty’s eye 
Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, 
And brazen helmets dance, 

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance ; 

I know that bards have sung, 

And people shouted till the welkin rung, 


In honor of the brave 

Who on the battle-field have found a grave: 

I know that o’er their bones 
Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. 

Some of those piles I’ve seen: 

The one at Lexington upon the green 
Where the first blood was shed, 

And to my country’s independence led; 

And others on our shore, 

The “Battle Monument” at Baltimore, 

And that on Bunker’s Hill. 

Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still; 

Thy “ tomb.” Themistocles, 

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, 
And which the waters kiss 
That issue from the gulf of Salamis. 

And thine, too, have I seen, 

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, 
That, like a natural knoll, 

Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, 
Watched by some turbaned boy, 

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. 






415 


JOHN PIERPONTc 


Such honors grace the bed, 

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, 
And hears, as life ebbs out, 

The conquered flying, and the conqueror’s 
shout; 

But as his eye grows dim, 

What is a column or a mound to him ? 

What, to the parting soul, 

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll 
Of drums ? No, let me die 
Where the blue heaven bends o’er me lov¬ 
ingly* 


And the soft summer air, 

As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, 
And from my forehead dries 
The death-damp as it gathers, and the skms 
Seem waiting to receive 
My soul to their clear depths! Or let me teave 
The world when round my bed 
Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered, 
And the calm voice of prayer 
And holy hymning shall my soul prepare 
To go and be at rest 

With kindred spirits,—spirits who have blessed 
The human brotherhood 
By labors, cares, and counsels for their good 


PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN. 


T HE winds and waves were roaring; 
The Pilgrims met for prayer; 
And here, their God adoring, 
They stood, in open air. 

When breaking day they greeted, 

And when its close was calm, 

The leafless woods repeated 
The music of their psalm. 

Not thus, O God, to praise thee, 

Do we, their children, throng: 

The temple’s arch we raise thee 
Gives back our choral song. 

Yet, on the winds that bore thee 
Their worship and their prayers, 

May ours come up before thee 
From hearts as true as theirs! 


What have we, Lord, to bind us 
To this, the Pilgrim’s shore!— 
Their hill of graves behind us, 

Their watery way before, 

The wintry surge, that dashes 
Against the rocks they trod, 
Their memory and their ashes,- 
Be thou their guard, O God. 

We would not, Holy Father, 
Forsake this hallowed spot, 

Till on that shore we gather 

Where graves and griefs arc not; 
The shore where true devotion 
Shall rear no pillared shrine, 

And see no other ocean 
Than that of love divine. 


FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. 


D AY of glory! welcome day! 

Freedom’s banners greet thy ray; 
See! how cheerfully they play 
With thy morning breeze, 

On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled, 

On the heights where squadrons wheeled, 
When a tyrant’s thunder pealed 
O’er the trembling seas. 

God of armies! did thy “stars 
In their courses” smite his cars, 

Blast his arm, and wrest his bars 
From the heaving tide! 


On our standard, lo! they burn, 
And, when days like this return. 
Sparkle o’er the soldiers’ urn 
Who for freedom died. 

God of peace!—whose spirit fills 
All the echoes of our hills, 

All the murmurs of our rills, 
Now the storm is o’er;— 

O, let freemen be our sons; 

And let future Washingtons 
Rise, to lead their valiant ones, 
Till there’s war no more. 







FAVORITE POEMS 

AND 

SELECTIONS OF PROSE 

FROM 

FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS 

INCLUDING 

Descriptive, Pathetic, Humorous and Oratorical Productions ; National Songs; 
Jewels of Thought and Sentiment; Historic Odes, Etc., Etc. 

EMBRACING 

Selections that are Universal Favorites and Admirably Adapted for Readings, 
Recitations, Public and Private Entertainments, Etc. 


THE WANTS OF MAN. 

BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 

This celebrated poem was written in Washington in August, 1841, in answer to a request 
from a lady for a contribution to her album. Mr. Adams was elected President in 1824. In 
1830 he consented to act as Representative in Congress from his district in Massachusetts 
and was constantly re-elected until 1848, when by a stroke of apoplexy, he died at his desk 
in the House. He was born in 1767. 

u AN wants but little here below, 
l V \ Nor wants that little long.” 

’Tis not with me exactly so, 

But ’tis so in the song. 

My wants are many, and if told, 

Would muster many a score; 

And were each wish a mint of gold, 

I still should long for more. 


What next I want, at heavy cost, 

Is elegant attire: 

Black sable furs for winter’s frost, 

And silks for summer’s fire; 

And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace 
My bosom’s front to deck, 

And diamond rings my hands to grace, 
And rubies for my neck. 


What first I want is daily bread, 

And canvas-backs and wine ; 

And all the realms of nature spread 
Before me when I dine; 

With four choice cooks from France, beside, 
To dress my dinner well; 

Four courses scarcely can provide 
My appetite to quell. 

416 


And then I want a mansion fair, 

A dwelling-house, in style, 

Four stories high, for wholesome air— 
A massive marble pile; 

With halls for banquetings and balls. 
All furnished rich and fine; 

With high-blood studs in fifty stalls, 
And cellars for my wine. 




FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


417 


I want a garden and a park, 

My dwelling to surround— 

A thousand acres (bless the mark!) 

With walls encompassed round— 

Where flocks may range and herds may low, 
And kids and lambkins play, 

And flowers and fruits commingled grow, 

All Eden to display. 

I want when summer’s foliage falls, 

And autumn strips the trees, 

A house within the city’s walls, 

For comfort and for ease; 

But here as space is somewhat scant, 

And acres somewhat rare, 

My house in town I only want 
To occupy—a square. 

I want a cabinet profuse 
Of metals, coins, and gems; 

A printing press for private use, 

Of fifty thousand ems; 

And plants, and minerals, and shells; 

Worms, insects, fishes, birds; 

And every beast on earth that dwelt 
In solitude or herds. 

And maples of fair glossy stain, 

Must form my chamber doors. 

And carpets of the Wilton grain 
Must cover all my floors; 

My walls with tapestry bedecked, 

Must never be outdone; 

And damask curtains must protect 
Their colors from the sun. 

And mirrors of the largest pane 
From Venice must be brought; 

And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane 
For chairs and tables bought; 

On all the mantel-pieces, clocks 
Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand, 

And screens of ebony and box 
Invite the stranger’s hand. 

I want (who does not want ?) a wife, 
Affectionate and fair, 

To solace all the woes of life, 

And all its joys to share ; 

27 


Of temper sweet, of yielding will, 

Of firm yet placid mind, 

With all my faults to love me still, 
With sentiment refined. 

And when my bosom’s darling sings, 
With melody divine, 

A pedal harp of many strings 
Must with her voice combine. 

Piano, exquisitely wrought, 

Must open stand, apart, 

That all my daughters may be taught 
To win the stranger’s heart. 

My wife and daughters will desire 
Refreshment from perfumes, 
Cosmetics for the skin require, 

And artificial blooms. 

The civet fragrance shall dispense, 

And treasured sweets return ; 

Cologne revive the flagging sense, 

And smoking amber burn. 

I want a warm and faithful friend, 

To cheer the adverse hour. 

Who ne’er to flattery will descend, 

Nor bend the knee to power: 

A friend to chide me when I’m wrong, 
My inmost soul to see ; 

And that my friendship prove as strong 
For him, as his for me. 

I want a kind and tender heart, 

For others’ wants to feel: 

A soul secure from fortune’s dart, 

And bosom armed with steel; 

To bear Divine chastisement’s rod, 

And, mingling in my plan, 
Submission to the will of God, 

With charity to man. 

I want uninterrupted health, 
Throughout my long career, 

And streams of never-failing wealth, 

To scatter far and near— 

The destitute to clothe and feed, 

Free bounty to bestow, 

Supply the helpless orphan’s need. 

And soothe the widow’s woe. 



418 


FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS- 


I want the voice of honest praise 
To follow me behind, 

And to be thought, in future days, 
The friend of human kind ; 
That after-ages, as they rise, 
Exulting may proclaim; 

In choral uniou to the skies, 

Their blessings on my name. 


These are the wants of mortal man ; 

I caunot need them long, 

For life itself is but a span, 

And earthly bliss a song, 

My last great want, absorbing all, 

Is, when beneath the sod, 

And summoned to my final call— 
The mercy of my God. 


THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 


BY THEODORE O’HARA. 


An American poet, born in Kentucky about 1820; served in the Mexican War; was 
Colonel in the Confederate army, and then chief of staff to General Breckenridge. Died 
Alabama in 1867. The poem here presented is a model of its kind and in some features 
without a rival. 


T HE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat 
The soldier’s last tattoo ; 

No more on life’s parade shall meet 
The brave and fallen few. 

On Fame’s eternal camping-ground 
Their silent tents are spread, 

And glory guards with solemn round 
The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe’s advance 
Now’ swells upon the wind, 

No troubled thought at midnight haunts i 
Of loved ones left behind ; 

No vision of the morrow’s strife 
The warrior’s dream alarms, 

No braying horn or screaming fife 
At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 
Their plumed heads are bowed, 

Their haughty banner trailed in dust 
Is now their martial shroud— 

And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
The red stains from each brow, 

And the proud forms by battle gashed 
Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle’s stirring blast, 

The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout are passed— 

Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal, 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 
The rapture of the fight. 


Like the fierce northern hurricane 
That sweeps his great plateau, 

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain 
Came down the serried foe — 

Who heard the thunder of the fray 
Break o’er the field beneath, 

Knew w T ell the watchward of that day 
AYas victory or death. 

Full many a mother’s breath hath swept 
O’er Angostura’s plain, 

And long the pitying sky has wept 
Above its mouldered slain. 

The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight, 

Or shepherd’s pensive lay, 

Alone now 7 wake each solemn height 
That frowned o’er that dreaded fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 

Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
Along the heedless air! 

Your own proud land’s heroic soil 
Shall be your fitter grave: 

She claims from war its richest spoil— 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus ’neath their parent turf they rest, 
Far from the gory field, 

Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast 
On many a bloody shield. 

The sunshine of their native sky 
Shines sadly on them here, 

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
The heroe’s sepulchre. 


b*p' 







FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


419 


Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! 

Dear as the blood ye gave; 

No impious footstep here shall tread 
The herbage of your grave! 

Nor shall your glory be forgot 
While Fame her record keeps, 

Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
Where Valor proudly sleeps. 


Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone 
In deathless song shall tell, 

When mauy a vanished year hath flown, 
The story how ye fell; 

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight, 
Nor time’s remorseless doom, 

Can dim one ray of holy light 
That gilds your glorious tomb. 


LAST HYMN. 


BY PHILIP PAUL BLISS. 


Evangelist and hymn writer, born at Clearfield, Pennsylvania, 1838 ; killed at Ashta¬ 
bula, Ohio, in a railway accident, December 29, 1876. 


I KNOW not what awaits me, 

God kindly veils mine eyes, 

And o’er each step on my onward way 
He makes new scenes arise; 

And every joy He sends me comes 
A sweet and glad surprise. 

CHORUS. 

Where He may lead I’ll follow, 

My trust in Him repose, 

And every hour in perfect peace 
I’ll sing, “ He knows, He knows.” 

One step I see before me ; 

’Tis all I need to see; 

The light of heaven more brightly shines 
When earth’s illusions flee, 


And sweetly through the silence came 
His loving “ Follow Me.” 

O blissful lack of wisdom, 

’Tis blessed not to know ; 

He holds me with His own right hand, 
And will not let me go, 

And lulls my troubled soul to rest, 

In Him who loves me so. 

So on I go, not knowing, 

I would not if I might; 

I’d rather walk in the dark with God 
Than go alone in the light; 

I’d rather walk by faith with Him 
Than go alone by sight. 


THE RAIL. 

BY GEORGE H. CLARK. 


I MET him in the cars, 

Where resignedly he sat ; 
His hair was full of dust, 
And so was his cravat; 
He was furthermore embellished 
By a ticket in his hat. 

The conductor touched his arm, 
And awoke him from a nap; 
When he gave the feeding flies 
An admonitory slap, 

And his ticket to the man 
In the yellow-lettered cap. 


So, launching into talk, 

We rattled on our way, 

With allusions to the crops 
That along the meadows lay,- 
Whereupon his eyes were lit 
With a speculative ray. 

The heads of many men 
Were bobbing as in sleep, 
And many babies lifted 
Their voices up to weep; 
While the coal-dust darkly fell 
On bonnets in a heap. 







420 


FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


All the while the swaying cars 
Kept rumbling o’er the rail, 
And the frequent whistle sent 
Shrieks of anguish to the gale, 
And the cinders pattered down 
On the grimy floor like hail. 

When suddenly ajar, 

And a thrice-repeated bump, 
Made the people in alarm 

From their easy cushions jump ; 
For they deemed the sounds to be 
The inevitable trump. 

A splintering crash below, 

A doom-foreboding twitch, 

As the tender gave a lurch 
Beyond the flying switch,— 
And a mangled mass of men 
Lay writhing in the ditch. 


With a palpitating heart 
My friend essayed to rise; 
There were bruises on his limbs 
And stars before his eyes, 
And his face was of the hue 
Of the dolphin when it dies. 

I was very well content 
In escaping with my life; 
But my mutilated friend 
Commenced a legal strife,— 
Being thereunto incited 
By his lawyer and his wife. 

And he writes me the result, 

In his quiet way as follows: 
That his case came up before 
A bench of legal scholars. 
Who awarded him his claim, 

Of 81500! 


COLUMBIA. 

BY TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 

Eminent educator and theologian; born at Northampton, Mass., 14th of May, 1752; 
president of Yale College in 1795, and until his death January 11, 1817. 


OLUMBIA, Columbia, to glory arise, 
The queen of the world, and child of 
the skies! [hold, 

Thy genius commands thee; with rapture be- 
While ages on a<:es thy splendors unfold, 

Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time, 
Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime; 
Let the crimes of the east ne’er encrimson thy 
name, 

Be freedom and science and virtue thy fame. 

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire ; 
Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire; 
Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, 
And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. 
A world is thy realm; for a world be thy laws, 
Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause; 
On Freedom’s broad basis that empire shall rise, 
Extend with the main, and dissolve with the 
skies. 

Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, 
And the east see thy morn hide the beams of 
her star, 


New bards and new sages unrivalled shall soar 

To fame unextinguished when time is no more; 

To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed, 

Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind; 

Here grateful to heaven, with transport shall 
bring 

Their incense, more fragrant than odors of 
spring. 

Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, 

And genius and beauty in harmony blend ; 

The graces of form shall awake pure desire, 

And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire; 

Their sweetness unmingled, their manners re¬ 
fined, 

And virtue’s bright image, enstamped on the 
mind, 

With peace and soft rapture shall teach life 
to glow, 

And light up a smile on the aspect of woe. 

Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall dis¬ 
play, 

The nations admire, and the ocean obey/ 







FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


421 


Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, 

And the east and the south yield their spices 
and gold. 

As the dayspring unbounded thy splendor 
shall flow, 

And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall 
bow, 

While the ensigns of union, in triumph un¬ 
furled. 

Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to 
the world. 


Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’er- 
spread, 

From war’s dread confusion, I pensively 
strayed,— 

The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired; 

The winds ceased to murmur, the thunders 
expired; 

Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along, 

And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung: 

“ Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, 

The queen of the world, and the child of the 
skies.” 


HAIL, COLUMBIA. 


BY JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 


The following account of the circumstances attending the composition of this song was 
communicated by the author a few months before his death. “ It was written in the summer 
of 1798, when war with France was thought to be inevitable. Congress was then in session 
in Philadelphia, deliberating upon that important subject, and acts of hostility had actually 
taken place. The contest between England and Fi ance was raging. The violation of our 
rights by both belligerents was forcing us from the just and wise policy of President Wash¬ 
ington, which was to do equal justice to both, to take part with neither, but to preserve a 
strict and honest neutrality between them. 

“ The violence of the spirit of party has never risen higher, I think, in our country, than 
it did at that time. The theatre was then open in the city. A young man belonging to it, 
whose talent was as a singer, was about to take his benefit. I had known him when he was 
at school. On this acquaintance, he called on me one Saturday afternoon, his benefit being 
announced for the following Monday. His prospects were very disheartening; but he said 
that if he could get a patriotic song adapted to the tune of the ‘ President’s March,’ he did 
not doubt of a full house; that the poets of theatrical corps had been trying to accomplish it, 
but had not succeeded. I told him I would try what I could do for him. He came the next 
afternoon, and the song was ready for him. 

“ The object of the author was to get up an American spirit, which should be independent 
of, and above the interests, passions, and policy of both belligerents, and look and feel exclu¬ 
sively for our own honor and rights. No allusion is made to France or England, or the 
quarrel between them, or to the question which was most at fault in their treatment of us. Of 
course the song found favor with both parties, for both were American. Such is the history 
of ‘ Hail, Columbia.’ ” 


H AIL Columbia, happy land, 

Hail, ye heroes! heaven-born band! 
Who fought and bled in freedom’s cause, 
Who fought and bled in freedom’s cause, 
And when the storm of war was gone 
Enjoyed the peace your valor won. 

Let independence be our boast 
Ever mindful what it cost; 

Ever grateful for the prize, 

Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm, united let us be, 

Rallying round our liberty; 


As a band of brothers joined, 
Peace and safety we shall find. 

Immortal patriots! rise once more: 
Defend your rights, defend your shore; 
Let no rude foe with impious hand, 
Let no rude foe with impious hand, 
Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
While offering peace sincere and just, 
In Heaven we place a manly trust, 
That truth and justice will prevail, 
And every scheme of bondage fail. 





422 


FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


Sound, sound the trump of fame! 

Let Washington’s great name 

Ring through the world with loud applause; 
Ring through the world with loud applause; 
Let every clime to freedom dear 
Listen with a joyful ear! 

With equal skill and godlike power, 

He governed in the fearful hour 
Of horried war; or guides with ease 
The happier times of honest peace. 


Behold the chief who now commands, 

Once more to serve his country stands— 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
But, armed in virtue firm and true, 

His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you. 
When hope was sinking in dismay, 

And glooms obscured Columbia’s day, 
His steady mind, from changes free. 
Resolved on death or liberty. 


GOOD NIGHT. 


BY CHARLES T. BROOKS. 


G ood night, 

To each weary, toil-worn wight! 
Now the day so sweetly closes, 

Every aching brow reposes 
Peacefully till morning light. 

Good night! 

Home to rest! 

Close the eye and calm the breast; 
Stillness through the streets is stealing, 
And the watchman’s horn is pealing, 
And the night calls softly, “ Haste! 
Home to rest! ” 


Sweetly sleep! 

Eden’s breezes round ye sweep. 
O’er the peace-forsaken lover 
Let the darling image hover, 

As he lies in transport deep. 
Sweetly sleep! 

So, good night! 

Slumber on till morning light; 
Slumber till another morrow 
Brings its stores of joy and sorrow; 
Fearless, in the Father’s sight, 
Slumber on. Good night! 


THE LONG AGO. 


BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TAYLOR. 

Born at Lowville, New York, and educated at Madison University; and many years 
connected with the Chicago “ Evening Journal.” Among his works are, “ The Attractions 
of Language,” “The World on Wheels,” “January and June,” “Songs of Yesterday,” etc. 
Died February 14, 1887. 


O H! a wonderful stream is the river of Time 
As it runs through the realm of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical 
rhyme, 

And a broader sweep and a surge sublime, 

As it blends in the ocean of years! 

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow, 
And the summers like biids between, 

And the years in the sheaf, how they come aud 
they go 

On the river’s breast, with its ebb aud its flow, 
As it glides in the shadow and sheen! 


There’s a magical isle up the river Time, 
Where the softest of airs are playing, 
There’s a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
Aud a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are straying. 

And the name of this isle is the “ Long Ago,” 
And we bury our treasures there, 

Thei’e are brows of beauty and bosoms of 
snow. 

There are heaps of dust—oh! we loved them 
so— 

There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 







FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


423 


There are fragments of songs that nobody sings, 
There are parts of an infant’s prayer, 
There’s a lute unswept and a harp without 
strings, 

There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 
And the garments our lovid used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved when the fairy 
shore 

By the fitful mirage is lifted in air, 


And we sometimes hear through the turbulent 
roar 

Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 
When the wind down the river was fair. 

Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle, 
All the day of our life until night: [smile, 
And when evening glows with its beautiful 
And our eyes are closing in slumber a while, 
May the greenwood of soul be in sight. 


INDIAN HEROISM. 

BY PHILIP FRENEAU. 

Born in New York City in 1752; died in 1832. 


T HE sun sets in night, and she stars shun 
the day ; [fade away. 

But glory remains when their lights 
Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in 
vain, [plain. 

For the sons of Alknomook will never com- 

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow ; 
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low! 
Why so low ? do you wait till I shrink from 
the pain ? [plain. 

No! the son of Alknomook shall never com- 


Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, 
And the scalps which we bore from your nation 
away. 

Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain, 
But the son of Alknomook can never com¬ 
plain. 

I go to the land where my father is gone ; 

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. 
Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from 
pain; [complain. 

And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorned to 


ALEXANDER HAMILTON. 

BY GOUVENEUR MORRIS. 

Mr. Morris was born in Westchester County, New York, in 1752; was a member of the 
Provincial Congress, a noted financier and Senator from his native State. His published 
writings include a “ Eulogy on General Hamilton.” Died in November, 1816. 


B RETHREN of the Cincinnati—there lies 
our chief! Let him still be our model. 
Like him, after long and faithful public 
services, let us cheerfully perform the social 
duties of private life. Oh! he was mild and 
gentle. In him there was no offence; no 
guile. His generous hand and heart were 
open to all. 

Gentlemen of the bar—you have lost your 
brightest ornament. Cherish and imitate his 
example. While, like him, with justifiable 
and with laudable zeal, you pursue the inter¬ 
ests of your clients, remember, like him, the 
eternal principle of justice. 


Fellow-citizens—you have long witnessed 
his professional conduct, and felt his unrivalled 
eloquence. You know how well he performed 
the duties of a citizen—you know that he 
never courted your favor by adulation or the 
sacrifice of his own judgment. You have 
seen him contending against you, and saving 
your dearest interest, as.it were, in spite of 
yourselves. And you now feel and enjoy the 
benefits resulting from the firm energy of his 
conduct. Bear this testimony to the memory 
of my departed friend. I charge you to pro¬ 
tect his fame. It is all he has left—all these 
poor orphan children will inherit from their 








424 


FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


father. But my countrymen, that fame may 
be a rich treasure to you also. Let it be the 
test by which to examine those who solicit 
your favor. Disregarding professions, view 
their conduct, and on a doubtful occasion ask, 
would Hamilton have done this thing? 

You all know how he perished. On this 
last scene I cannot, I must not dwell. It 
might excite emotions too strong for your bet¬ 
ter judgment. Suffer not your indignation to 


lead to any act which might again offend the 
insulted majesty of the laws. On his part, as 
from his lips, though with my voice—for his 
voice you will hear no more—let me entreat 
you respect yourselves. 

And now, ye ministers of the everlasting 
God, perform your holy office, and commit 
these ashes of our departed brother to the 
bosom of the grave. 


INDEPENDENCE BELL-JULY 4, 1776. 

When the Declaration of Independence was adopted by Congress, the event was 
announced by ringing the old State House bell, which bore the inscription “ Proclaim liberty 
throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof! ” The old bellman stationed his little 
grandson at the door of the hall, to await the instructions of the door-keeper when to ring. 
At the word, the young patriot rushed out, and clapping his hands shouted ! 


Ring ! RING! 

HERE was a tumult in the city 
In the quaint old Quaker town, 

And the streets were rife with people 
Pacing restless up and down— 
People gathering at the corners, 

Where they whispered each to each, 

And the sweat stood on their temples 
With the earnestness of speech. 

As the bleak Atlantic currents 

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, 

So they beat against the State House, 

So they surged against the door ; 

And the mingling of their voices 
Made the harmony profound 
Till the quiet street of Chestnut 
Was all turbulent with sound. 

“ Will they do it ? ” “ Dare they do it ? ” 

“ Who is speaking? ” “ What’s the news? ” 
“ What of Adams? ” “ What of Sherman ? ” 
“ Oh, God grant they won’t refuse! ” 

*• Make some way there! ” “ Let me nearer ! ” 
“ I am stifling! ” “ Stifle then! 

When a nation’s life’s at hazard, 

We’ve no time to think of men! ” 

So they surged against the State House, 
While all solemnly inside 
Sat the “Continental Congress,” 

Truth and reason for their guide. 


O’er a simple scroll debating, 

Which, though simple it might be, 

Yet should shake the cliffs of England 
With the thunders of the free. 

Far aloft in that high steeple 
Sat the bellman, old and gray, 

He was weary of the tyrant 
And his iron-sceptered sway; 

So he sat, with one hand ready 
On the clapper of the bell, 

When his eye could catch the signal, 

The long-expected news to tell. 

See! See! The dense crowd quiver 
Through all its lengthy line, 

As the boy beside the portal 
Hastens forth to give the sign ! 

With his little hands uplifted, 

Breezes dallying with his hair, 

Hark ! with deep, clear intonation, 
Breaks his young voice on the air: 

Hushed the people’s swelling murmur, 
Whilst the boy cries joyously ; 

“ Ring! ” he shouts, “ Ring! grandpapa, 
Ring! oh, ring for Liberty! ” 

Quickly, at the given signal 
The old bellman lifts his hand, 

Forth he sends the good news, making 
Iron music through the land. 





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425 


How they shouted! What rejoiciug! 

How the old bell shook the air, 

Till the clang of freedom ruffled, 

The calmly gliding Delaware! 

How the bonfires and the torches 
Lighted up the night’s repose, 

And from the flames like fabled Phoenix 
Our glorious liberty arose! 


That old State House bell is silent, 
Hushed is now its clamorous tongue : 
But the spirit it awakened 
Still is living—ever young ; 

And when we greet the smiling sunlight 
On the fourth of each July, 

We will ne’er forget the bellman 
Who, betwixt the earth and sky, 
Rung out, loudly, “ Independence; ” 
Which, please God, shall never die I 


THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD. 

BY MRS. REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 


D OWN deep in a hollow, so damp and so 
cold, 

Where oaks are by ivy o’ergrown, 
The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould, 
Lying loose on a ponderous stone. 

Now within this huge stone, like a king on his 
throne, [known ; 

A toad has been sitting more years than is 
And strange as it seems, yet he constant y 
deems [his dreams— 

The world standing still while he’s dreaming 
Does this wonderful toad, in his cheerful 
abode 

In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, 
By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o’er¬ 
grown. 

Down deep in the hollow, from morning till 
night, 

Dun shadows glide over the ground, [light, 
Where a watercourse once, as it sparkled with 
Turned a ruined old mill-wheel around : 
Long years have passed by since its bed be¬ 
came dry, [of the sky 

And the trees grow so close, scarce a glimpse 
Is seen in the hollow, so dark and so damp, 
Where the glow-worm at noonday is trimming 
his lamp, 

And hardly a sound from the thicket around, 
Where the rabbit and squirrel leap over the 
ground, 

Is heard by the toad in his spacious abode 
In the innermost heart of that ponderous stone, 
By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o’er¬ 
grown. 


Down deep in that hollow the bees never come, 
The shade is too black for a flower ; [hum, 
And jewel-winged birds, with their musical 
Never flash in the night of that bower; 

But the cold-blooded snake, in the edge of the 
brake, [awake; 

Lies amid the rank grass half asleep, half 
And the ashen-white snail, with the slime in 
its trail, 

Moves wearily on like a life’s tedious tale, 
Yet disturbs not the toad in his spacious 
abode, 

In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, 
By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o’er¬ 
grown. 

Down deep in a hollow some wiseacres sit 
Like the toad in his cell in the stone ; 
Around them in daylight the blind owlets flit, 
And their creeds are with ivy o’ergrown— 
Their streams may grow dry, and the wheels 
cease to ply, 

And their glimpses be few of the sun and the 
sky, [ored guest, 

Still they hug to their breast every time-hon- 
And slumber and doze in inglorious rest; 

For no progress they find in the wide sphere of 
mind, [kind; 

And the world’s standing still with all of their 
Contented to dwell deep down in the well. 

Or move like the snail in the crust of his shell, 
Or live like the toad in his narrow abode, 
With their souls closely wedged in a thick wall 
of stone, [grown. 

By the gray weeds of prejudice rankly o’er- 






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BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

BY JULIA WARD HOWE. 

Mrs. Howe, wife of Samuel G. Howe, a well-known Boston physician and philanthropist, 
was born in New York City in 1819. She was noted for her philanthropic spirit and 
advanced views on the questions of the day. She is the author of two volumes of poems, 
entitled “Passion Flowers” and “Words for the Hour.” Her Battle-hymn was written one 
night in Washington, soon became popular in our army during the Civil War, and was sung 
everywhere. 


M INE eyes have seen the glory of the 
coming of the Lord : 

He is tramping out the vintage where 
the grapes of wrath are stored ; 

He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his j 
terrible, swift sword: 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hun¬ 
dred circling camps; 

They have builded him an altar in the evening 
dews and damps; 

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim 
and flaring lamps; 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished 
rows of steel: 

“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you 
my grace shall deal; 


Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 
serpent with his heel, 

Since God is marching on.” 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall 
never call retreat; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his 
judgment-seat; 

O, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be jubi¬ 
lant, my feet! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lillies Christ was born 
across the sea, 

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures 
you and me; 

As he died to make men holy, let us die to 
make men free, 

While God is marching on. 


THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 


BY FRANCIS MILES FINCH. 


Born at Ithaca, New York, June 9, 1827 ; graduated in 1849 at Yale College and 
became a lawyer of his native town. He wrote a fine poem on Nathan Hale, the patriotic 
spy, and many lyrics, including the one here given. 

Many of the women of the South, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves 
impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They have strewn flowers alike 
on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers. 


B Y the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep on the ranks of the dead :— 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 

Under the one, the Blue, 

Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 

All with the battle-blood gory, 

In the dusk of eternity meet:— 


Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours, 
The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers, 

Alike for the friend and the foe:— 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 






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So, with an equal splendor, 

The morning sun-rays £.11, 

With a touch impartially tender, 

Ou the blossoms blooming for all:— 
Under the s d and (he dew, 
Wailing the judgment day ; 
Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So when the summer calleth, 

On forest and field of grain, 

With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain :— 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day ; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 

Wet with the rain, the Gray. 


Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 

The generous deed was done ; 

In the storm of the years that are fading, 
No braver battle was won :— 

Under the sod and the dew 
Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 

Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 

They banish our anger forever [dead \ 
When they laurel the graves of our 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 

Love and tears for the Blue, 

Tears and love for the Gray. 


THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER. 


BY FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 


In 1814, when the British fleet was at the mouth of the Potomac River, and intended to 
attack Baltimore, Mr. Key and Mr. Skinner were sent in a vessel with a flag of truce to 
obtain the release of some prisoners the English had taken in their expedition against Wash¬ 
ington. They did not succeed, and were told that they would be detained till after the 
attack had been made on Baltimore. Accordingly, they went in their own vessel, strongly 
guarded, with the British fleet, and when they came within sight of Fort McHenry, a short 
distance below the city, they could see the American flag flying on the ramparts. 

As the day closed in, the bombardment of the fort commenced, and Mr. Key and Mr. 
Skinner remained on deck all night, watching with deep anxiety every shell that was fired. 
While the bombardment continued, it was sufficient proof that the fort had not surrendered. 
It suddenly ceased some time before day ; but as they had no communication with the enemy’s 
ships, they did not know whether the fort had surrendered, or the attack had been abandoned. 

At length the light came, and they saw that “our flag was still there,” and soon they 
were informed that the attack had failed. In the fervor of the moment, Mr. Key took an old 
letter from his pocket, and on its back wrote the most of this celebrated song, finishing it as 
soon as he reached Baltimore. He showed it to his friend Judge Nicholson, who was so pleased 
with it that he placed it at once in the hands of the printer, and in an hour after it was all 
over the city, and hailed with enthusiasm, and took its place at once as a national song. 
Thus, this patriotic, impassioned ode became forever associated with the “Stars and 
Stripes.” 


O SAY can you see, by the dawn’s early 
light, 

What so proudly we hailed in the 
twilight’s last gleaming ? 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through 
the perilous fight, 

O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
streaming; 


And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting 
in air, 

Gave proof through the night that our flag 
was still there. 

0, say, does that star-spangled banner yet 
wave 

O’er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave ? 





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On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of 
the deep, 

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread 
silence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o’er the 
towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half 
discloses ? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s 
first beam, 

In full glory reflected now shines on the 
stream. 

’Tis the star-spangled banner! O, long may 
it wave 

O’er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly 
swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle’s 
confusion 

A home and a country should leave us no 
more ? 


Their blood has washed out their foul foot¬ 
step’s pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of death and the gloom of 
the grave. 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
shall wave 

O’er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave! 

O, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the war’s 
desolation; 

Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven- 
rescued land 

Praise the power that has made and pre¬ 
served us a nation. 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 

And this be our motto, “ In God is our trust.” 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
shall wave 

O’er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave! 


A SNOW STORM. 

BY CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN. 

Poet and journalist, born in Oxford County, Maine, in 1816. In 1846 he became editor 
of the “ Vermont Patriot,” Montpelier, and issued a volume of poems in 1848. Died at 
Burlington, Vermont, in 1861. The following tragic and well-known poem describes an 
occurrence that took place in a Vermont winter. 


? r T''IS a fearful night in the winter time, 

As cold as it ever can be ; [chime 
The roar of the blast is heard like the 
Of the waves on an angry sea. 

The moon is full; but her silver light 
The storm dashes out w T ith its wings to-night: 
And over the sky from south to north 
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 
In the strength of . a mighty glee. 

All day had the snow come down—all day 
As it never came down before; 

And over the hills, at sunset, lay 
Some two or three feet, or more: 

The fence Avas lost, and the wall of stone; 

The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone: 
The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, 
As it lay by the farmer’s door. 


The night sets in on a world of snow, 

While the air grows sharp and chill, 

And the warning roar of a fearful blow 
Is heard on the distant hill; 

And the norther, see! on the mountain peak 
In hisbreath howtheold trees writhe and shriek! 
He shouts on the plain, ho-ho ! ho-ho ! 

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
And growls with a savage will. 

Such a night as this to be found abroad, 

In the drifts and the freezing air, 

Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, 
With the snow in his shaggy hair. 

He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls; 

He lifts his head, and moans and howls; _ 
Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet— 
Pray, what does the dog do there ? 





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429 


A farmer came from the village plain— 

But he lost the traveled way ; 

And for hours he trod with might and main 
A path for his horse and sleigh ; 

But colder still the cold winds blew, 

And deeper still the deep drifts grew, 

And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 

At last in her struggles floundered down, 
Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain with a neigh and a frenzied snort, 
She plunged in the drifting snow, 

While her master urged, till his breath grew 
short, 

With a word and a gentle blow ; 

But the snow was deep, and the tugs were 
tight; 

His hands were numb, and had lost their 
might; 

So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, 
And strove to shelter himself till day, 

With his coat and the buffalo. 

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, 
To rouse up his dying steed ; 

And the poor dog howls to the blasts in vain, 
For help in his master’s need. 


For a while he strives with a wistful cry 
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 

And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, 

And whines when he takes no heed. 

The wind goes down and the storm is o’er— 
’Tis the hour of midnight, past; 

The old trees writhe and bend no more 
In the whirl of the rushing blast. 

The silent moon with her peaceful light 
Looks down on the hills with snow all white, 
And the giant shadow of Camel’s Hump, 

The blasted pine and ghostly stump, 

Afar on the plain are cast. 

But cold and dead by the hidden log 
Are they who came from the town— 

The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 
And his beautiful Morgan brown— 

In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, 

With his cap on his head and the reins in his 
hand— 

The dog with his nose on his master’s feet, 
And the mare half seen through the crusted 
sleet. 

Where she lay when she floundered down. 


THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. 

BY CHARLES W. DENISON. 


T HE drunkard dreamed of his old retreat, 
Of his cosy place in the tap-room seat; 
And the liquor gleamed on his gloating 
eye, 

Till his lips to the sparkling glass drew nigh. 
He lifted it up with an eager glance, 

And sang as he saw the bubbles dance: 

“ Ah! I am myself again ! 

Here’s a truce to care, and adieu to pain. 
Welcome the cup with its creamy foam— 
Farewell to work and a mopy home— 

With a jolly crew and a flowing bowl, 

In bar-room pleasures I love to roll! ” 

Like a crash there came to the drunkard’s side 
His angel child, who that night had died ; 
With a look so gentle and sweet and fond, 

She touched his glass with her little wand ; 


And oft as he raised it up to drink, 

She silently tapped on its trembling brink, 
Till the drunkard shook from foot to crown, 
And set the untasted goblet down. [this? 
“ Hey, man! ” cried the host, “ what meaneth 
Is the covey sick ? or the dram amiss ? 

Cheer up, my lad—quick, the bumper quaff*! ” 
And he glared around with a fiendish laugh. 

The drunkard raised his glass once more, 

And looked at its depths as so oft before ; 

But started to see on its pictured foam, 

The face of his dead little child at home; 
Then again the landlord at him sneered, 

And the swaggering crowd of drunkards 
jeered ; 

But still, as he tried that glass to drink, 

The wand of his dead one tapped the brink! 






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The landlord gasped, “ I swear, my man, 
Thou shalt take every drop of this flowing 
can!” 

The drunkard bowed to the quivering brim, 
Though his heart beat fast and his eyes grew 
dim. 

But the wand struck harder than before: 

The glass was flung on the bar-room floor. 

All around the ring the fragments lay, 

And the poisonous current rolled away. 

The drunkard woke. His dream was gone; 
His bed was bathed in the light of morn ; 


But he saw, as he shook with pale, cold fear, 
A beautiful angel hovering near. 

He rose, and that seraph was nigh him still: 
It checked bis passions, it swayed his will, 

It dashed from his lips the maddening bowl, 
And victory gave to his ransomed soul. 

Since ever that midnight hour he dreamed, 
Our hero has been a man redeemed. 

And this is the prayer that he prays alway, 
And this is the prayer let us help him pray: 
That angels may come in every land, 

To dash the cup from the drunkard’s hand. 


MY MARYLAND. 

BY JAMES RYDER RANDALL. 

Journalist and poet, born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1839. The spirited lyric here 
given, written in 1801, was very popular during the Civil War. 


T HE despot’s heel is on thy shore, 
Maryland! 

His torch is at thy temple door, 
Maryland! 

Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 
Maryland, my Maryland! 

Hark to an exiled son’s appeal, 
Maryland! 

My Mother State to thee I kneel, 
Maryland! 

For life or death, for woe or weal, 

Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 

And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
Maryland, my Maryland 1 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
Maryland 1 

Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 
Maryland 1 

Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, 
Remember Howard’s warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 
Maryland, my Maryland 1 

Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day, 
Maryland 1 

Come with thy panoplied array, 
Maryland! 


With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray, 

With Watson’s blood at Monterey, 

With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 
Maryland, my Maryland 1 

Dear Mother burst the tyrant’s chain, 
Maryland 1 

Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland 1 

She meets her sisters on the plain, 

“ Sic semper ! ” ’tis the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 
Maryland 1 

Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland 1 

Come 1 for thy shield is bright and strong, 
Maryland 1 

Cornel for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 
Maryland 1 

Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with liberty along, 

And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 
Maryland, my Maryland 1 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland 1 

But thou wast ever bravely meek, 
Maryland 1 

But lo 1 there surges forth a shriek, 

From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 







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431 


Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not crook to his control, 
Maryland! 

Better the fire upon the roll, 

Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 


| I hear the distant thunder-hum ! 

Maryland ! 

The “ Old Line’s ” bugle, fife and drum, 
Maryland ! 

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb : 

Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum— 

She breathes! She burns ! She’ll come ! She’ll 
come! 

Maryland, my Maryland! 


ADVICE TO YOUNG- MEN. 

BY NOAH PORTER. 

Born in Farmington, Connecticut, in 1811 ; graduated at Yale College, 1831; became 
President of the College in 1871; w r rote “Elements of Intellectual Philosophy;” died 
March 4, 1892. 


Y OUNG men, you are the architects of 
your own fortunes. Rely upon your 
own strength of body and soul. Take 
for your star self-reliance, faith, honesty, and 
industry. Inscribe on your banner, “ Luck is 
a fool, pluck is a hero.” Don’t take too much 
advice—keep at your helm and steer your 
own ship, and remember that the great art of 
commanding is to take a fair share of the 
work. Don’t practice too much humanity. 
Think well of yourself. Strike out. Assume 
your own position. Put potatoes in your cart, 
over a rough road, and small ones go to the 
bottom. Rise above the envious and jealous. 
Fire above the mark you intend to hit. 


Energy, invincible, determination, with a 
right motive, are the levers that move the 
world. Don’t drink. Don’t chew. Don’t 
smoke. Don’t swear. Don’t deceive. Don’t 
read novels. Don’t marry until you can 
support a wife. Be in earnest. Be self- 
reliant. Be generous. Be civil. Read the 
papers. Advertise your business. Make 
money and do good with it. Love your God 
and fellowmen. Love truth and virtue. Love 
your country, and obey its laws. If this 
advice be implicitly followed by the young 
men of the country, the millennium is at 
hand. They can usher in that better day for 
which the world waits. 


NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 

BY MRS. CLEVELAND. 


T ALKING of sects till late one eve, 

Of the various doctrines the saints believe, 
That night I stood, in a troubled dream, 
By the side of a darkly flowing stream. 

And a “ Churchman ” down to the river came; 
When I heard a strange voice call his name, 

“ Good father, stop; when you cross this tide, 
You must leave your robes on the other side.” 

But the aged father did not mind ; 

And his long gown floated out behind, 


As down to the stream his way he took, 

His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 

“ I’m bound for heaven; and when I’m there, 
Shall want my Book of Common Prayer; 
And, though I put on a starry crown, 

I should feel quite lost without my gown.” 

Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track, 
But his gown was heavy and held him back, 
And the poor old father tried in vain, 

I A single step in the flood to gain. 








432 


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FAVORITE POEMS 

I saw him again on the other side, 

But his silk gown floated on the tide ; 

And no one asked, in that blissful spot, 
Whether he belonged to the “ Church ” or not. 

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed ; 

His dress of a sober hue was made : 

“ My coat and hat must all be gray 
I cannot go any other way.” 

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his 
chin, 

And staidly, solemnly, waded in, 

And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down 
tight, 

Over his forehead so cold and white. 

But a strong wind carried away his hat; 

A moment he silently sighed over that; 

And then, as he gazed to the further shore, 

The coat slipped off, and was seen no more. 

As he entered heaven his suit of gray 
Went quietly, sailing, away, away ; 

And none of the angels questioned him 
About the width of his beaver’s brim. 

Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms 
Tied nicely up in his aged arms, 

And hymns as many, a very wise thing, 

That the people in heaven, “ all round,” might 
sing. 

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, 
And he saw that the river ran broad and high, 
And looked rather surprised, as one by one 
The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. 

And after him, with his MSS., 

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness; 

But he cried, “ Dear me! what shall I do ? 
The water has soaked them through and 
through.” 

And there on the river far and wide, 

Away they went down the swolleu tide; 

And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, 
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. 

Then, gravely walking, two saints by name 
Down to the stream together came ; 

But, as they stopped at the river’s brink, 

I saw one saint from the other shrink. 


•‘Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend, j 
How you attained to life's great end ? ” 

“ Thus, with a few drops on my brow.” 

•• But I have been dipped, as you’ll see me now. I 

| “ And I really think it will hardly do, 

' As I’m * close communion,’ to cross with you ; 

I You’re bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, I 
But you must go that way, and I’ll go this.” I 

Then straightway plunging with all his might, 
Away to the left—his friend to the right, 

Apart they went from this world of sin, 

But at last together they entered in. 

And now when the river was rolling on, 

A Presbyterian Church went down ; 

Of women there seemed an innumerable throng, 
But the men I could count as they passed along. 

And concerning the road, they could never 
agree 

[ The old or the new way, which it could be, 

Nor ever a moment paused to think 
That both would lead to the river’s brink. 

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud, 
Came ever up from the moving crowd ; 
“Your’re in the old way, and I’m in the 
new; 

That is the false, and this is the true ”— 

Or, “I’m in the old way, and you’re in the 
new; 

That is the false, and this is the true.” 

But the brethren only seemed to speak; 

Modest the sisters walked and meek. 

And if ever one of them chanced to say 
What troubles she met with on the way, 

How she longed to pass to the other side, 

Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 

A voice arose from the brethren then, 

“ Let no one speak but the ‘ holy men ; ’ 

For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 
‘Oh, let the women keep silence all? ’ ” 

I watched them long in my curious dream, 
Till they stood by the borders of the stream : 
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met; 
But all the brethren were talking yet, 

And would talk on till the heaving tide 
i Carried them over side by side— 



FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


433 


Side by side, for the way was one; 

The toilsome journey of life was done; 
And all who in Christ the Saviour died, 
Came out alike on the other side. 


No forms or crosses or books had they; 
No gowns of silk or suits of gray; 

No creeds to guide them, or MSS.; 

For all had put on Christ’s righteousness. 


I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 

BY WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG. 

Founder of St. Luke’s Hospital, New York; Church of the Holy Communion in New 
York, and the colony of Saint Johnland, on Long Island. An earnest advocate of “Evan¬ 
gelical Catholic Union.” Born in Philadelphia, September 16, 1796, and died in New York, 
April 8, 1877. His best known pen production is the following sacred lyric : 


I WOULD not live alway, live alway below! 
Oh no, I’ll linger not when bidden to go ; 
The days of our pilgrimage granted us here 
Are enough for life’s woes, full enough for its 
cheer. 

Would I shrink from the path which the pro¬ 
phets of God, 

Apostles and martyrs so joyfully trod ? 

Like a spirit unblest o’er the earth would I 
roam. 

While brethren and friends are all hastening 
home? 

I would not live alway—I ask not to stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o’er the 
way; 

Where, seeking for rest, we but hover around 
Like the patriarch’s bird, and no resting is ] 
found ; 

Where hope, when she paints her gay bow in 
the air, 

Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of 
despair, 

And joy’s fleeting angel ne’er sheds a glad ray 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him 
away. 

I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin— 
Temptation without and corruption within ; 

In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, 
Scarce the victory is mine ere I’m captive again. 
E’en the rapture of pardon is mingled with 
fears 

And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent 
tears, 

The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, 

But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

28 


I would not live alway—no, welcome the tomb! 
Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its 
gloom ; 

Where he deigned to sleep I’ll, too, bow my 
head, 

All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed 
bed; 

Then the glorious daybreak to follow that 
night. 

The orient gleam of the angels of light, 

With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise 
And chant forth their matins away to the skies. 

Who, who would live alway—away from his 
God, 

Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode; 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o’er the 
bright plains, 

And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, 
Their Saviour and brethren transported to 
greet, 

While the songs of salvation exultingly roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the 
soul ? 

That heavenly music! Hark! sweet in the air 
The “ harps of the harpers ” I hear ringing 
there! 

And see soft unfolding those portals of gold, 
The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! 
Oh, give me—oh, give me the wings of a dove 
To adore him, be near him, enrapt with his 
love, 

I but wait for the .summons, I list for the 
word— 

Alleluia ! Amen ! Evermore with the Lord. 







434 


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HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 

Cyrus W. Field organized the “Atlantic Telegraph Company” in 1856 for the purpose 
of connecting Europe and America by a sub-marine cable. After two failures in 1857 and 
1858, the project was successfully accomplished in August, 1866. This was due to Mr. Field’s 
masterly business ability and unfaltering persevereuce. He was born in Stockbridge, Massa¬ 
chusetts, in 1819, and died July 26, 1892. 


C OME, listen to my song, it is no silly fable, 
’Tis all about the mighty cord they call 
the Atlantic Cable. 

Bold Cyrus Field, said he, “ I have a pretty 
notion 

That I could run a telegraph across the At¬ 
lantic Ocean.” 

And all the people laughed and said they’d 
like to see him do it; 

He might get “half seas over,” but never 
would go through it. 

To carry out his foolish plan he never would 
be able; 

He might as well go hang himself with his 
Atlantic Cable. 

But Cyrus was a valiant man, a fellow of 
decision, 

And heeded not their careless words, their 
laughter and derision. 

Twice did his bravest effort fail, yet his mind 
was stable; 

He wasn’t the man to break his heart because 
he broke his cable. 


“ Once more, my gallant boys,” said he: “ three 
times,”—you know the fable. 

“I’ll make it thirty,” muttered he, “butwhat 
I’ll lay my cable.” 

Hurrah ! hurrah! again hurrah! what means 
this great commotion ? 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! The cable’s laid across the 
Atlantic Ocean. 

Loud ring the bells, for flashing through ten 
thousand leagues of water, 

Old Mother England’s benison salutes her 
eldest daughter. 

O’er all the land the tidings spread, and soon 
in every nation, 

They’ll hear about the cable with profoundest 
admiration. 

Long live the gallant souls who helped our 
noble Cyrus; 

And may their courage, faith, and zeal, with 
emulation fire us. 

And may we honor, evermore, the manly, 
bold and stable, 

And tell our sons, to make them brave, how 
Cyrus laid the Cable. 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE- 

BY EPES SARGENT. 

The captivating song of the sea here reproduced has long been a favorite with the 
public. Set to music, it has been sung for two generations, and its charm is not likely ever 
to die. The author was born at Gloucester, Massachusets, in 1812, was successively editor 
of the New York “Mirror” and Boston “Evening Transcript,” and published “Songs of 
the Sea and Others Poems,” and “Arctic Adventures by Sea and Land.” Died December 
30, 1880. 


A LIFE on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep; 
Where the scattered waters rave, 
And the winds their revels keep ! 


Like an angel caged I pine 

On this dull, unchanging shore: 
O, give me the flashing brine, 

The spray and the tempest’s roar! 






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435 


Once more on the deck I stand, 

Of my own swift-gliding craft: 

Set sail! farewell to the land ; 

The gale follows fair abaft. 

We shoot through the sparkling foam, 
Like an ocean-bird set free— 

Like an ocean-bird, our home 
We’ll find far out on the sea. 


The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown ; 

But with a stout vessel and crew, 

We’ll say, Let the storm come down! 
And the song of our heart shall be, 
While the winds and the waters rave, 
A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave! 


THE FROST. 

BY HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. 

Born in Lancaster, Massachusetts, published in 1832 a volume of poems which were 
well received, followed these by two other volumes, and in 1854 issued “Hymns and Poems 
for Children.” Died in 1865. 


T HE Frost looked forth, one still clear night, 
And he said, “ Now I shall be out of sight; 
So through the valley and over the height 
In silence I’ll take my way, 

I will not go like that blustering train, 

The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, 
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain; 
But I’ll be as busy as they ! ” 

Then he went to the mountain, and powdered 
its crest, 

He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he 
dressed 

With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast 
Of the quivering lake he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The downward point of many a spear 
That he hung on its margin, far and near, 
Where a rock could rear its head. 


He went to the windows of those who slept, 
And over each pane like a fairy crept; 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, 
By the light of the moon were seen 
Most beautiful things. There were flowers 
and trees, 

There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees, 
There were cities, thrones, temples and towers, 
and these 

All pictured in silver sheen ! 

But he did one thing that was hardly fair— 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare— 

“ Now just to set them a-thinking, 

I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he; 

“ This costly pitcher I’ll burst in three. 

And the glass of water they’ve left for me 
Shall * tchick ’ to tell them I’m drinking.” 


AN AX TO GRIND. 

BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 


Printer, editor, practical philosopher, statesman, educator and foreign ambassador, 
Benjamin Franklin was one of the giants of his time. His quaint, homely, common-sense 
writings, not without an occasional touch of humor, have long been popular. Born in 
Boston, Massachusetts, January 17, 1706; died in Philadelphia, 17th of April, 1790. 


W HEN I was a little boy, I remember, 
one cold, winter morning I was ac¬ 
costed by a smiling man with an ax 
on his shoulder. “ My pretty boy,” said he, 
“ has your father a grindstone ? ” “ Yes, sir,” 

said I. “ You are a fine little fellow,” said 


he ; “ will you let me grind my ax on it ? ” 
Pleased with the compliment of “ fine little 
fellow,” “Oh, yes, sir,” I answered; “it is 
down in the shop.” 

“ And will you, my man,” said he, patting 
me on the head, “get me a little hot water ? ” 







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436 

How could I refuse? I ran and soon brought 
a kettleful. “ I am sure,” continued he,“you 
are one of the finest lads that ever I have 
seen ; will you just turn a few minutes for me ? 

Pleased with the flattery, I went to work ; 
and I toiled and tugged till I was almost tired 
to death. The school-bell rang, and I could 
not get away ; my hands were blistered, and 
the ax was not half ground. 

At length, however, it was sharpened ; and i 
the man turned to me with, “ Now, you little 
rascal, you’ve played truant: be off to school, 
or you’ll rue it! ” 


“Alas! ” thought I, “ it is hard enough to 
turn a grindstone, but now to be called a little 
rascal, is too much.” It sank deep into my 
mind, and often have I thought of it since. 
When I see a merchant over polite to his cus¬ 
tomers, methinks, “That man has an ax to 
grind.” 

When I see a man, who is in private life a 
tyrant, flattering the people, and making great 
professions of attachment to liberty, methinks, 
“ Look out, good people! that fellow would 
set you turning grindstones ! ” 


THE FARMER’S WIFE. 


T HE farmer came in from the field one day ; 
His languid step and his weary way, 

His bended brow, his sinewy hand, 

All showed his work for the good of the land ; 
For he sows, 

And he hoes, 

And he mows, 

All for the good of the land. 

By the kitchen fire stood his patient wife, 
Light of his home and joy of his life, 

With face all aglow and busy hand, 

Preparing the meal for her husband’s band ; 
For she must boil, 

And she must broil, 

And she must toil, 

All for the good of the home. 

The bright sun shines when the farmer goes 
out, 

The birds sing sweet songs, lambs frisk about 
The brook babbles softly in the glen, 

While he works so bravely for the good of men; 
For he sows, 

And he mows, 

And he hoes, 

All for the good of the land. 

How briskly the wife steps about within, 

The dishes to wash, the milk to skim ; 

The fire goes out, flies buzz about— 

For the dear ones at home her heart is kept 
There are pies to make, [stout; 
There is bread to bake, 

And steps to take, 

All for the sake of home. 


When the day is o’er, and the evening is come 
The creatures are fed, the milking done, 

He takes his rest ’neath the old shade tree, 
From the labor of the land his thoughts are 
free : 

Though he sows, 

And he hoes, 

And he mows, 

He rests from the work of the land. 

But the faithful wife, from sun to sun, 

Takes her burden up that’s never done: 
There is no rest, there is no play, 

For the good of the house she must work away; 
For to mend the frock, 

And to knit the sock, 

And the cradle to rock, 

All for the good of the home. 

When autumn is here, and its chilling blast, 
The farmer gathers his crop at last; 

His barns are full, his fields are bare, 
i For the good of the land he ne’er hath care, 
While it blows, 

And it snows, 

Till winter goes, 

He rests from the work of the land. 

But the willing wife, till life’s closing day, 

Is the children’s guide, the husband’s stay ; 
From day to day she has done her best, 

Until death alone can give her rest, . 

For after the test, 

Comes the rest, 

With the blest, 

In the farmer’s heavenly home 








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437 


THE DRUMMER BOY OF SHILOH. 


O N Shiloh’s dark and bloodly ground the 
dead and wounded lay ; 

Among them was a drummer boy who 
beat the drum that day; 

A wounded soldier held him up, his drum was 
by his side; 

He clasped his hands and raised his eyes, and 
prayed before he died. 

“ Look down upon the battlefield, O, thou our 
Heavenly Friend; 

Have mercy on our sinful souls ; ” the soldiers 
cried Amen ; 

For gathered ’round a little group each brave 
man knelt and cried; 

They listened to the drummer boy, who prayed 
before he died. 

“ Oh, mother,” said the dying boy, “ look down 
from heaven on me ; 

Receive me to thy fond embrace, O take me 
home to thee: 


| I’ve loved my country as my God, to serve 
them both I’ve tried.” 

He smiled, shook hands ; death seized the boy, 
who prayed before he died. 

Each soldier wept then like a child, stout 
hearts were they and brave ; 

The flag his winding sheet; God’s book the 
key unto his grave; 

They wrote upon a simple board these words: 
“ This is a guide 

To those who’d mourn the drummer boy, who 
prayed before he died.” 

Ye angels ’round the throne of grace, look 
down upon the braves 

Who fought and died on Shiloh’s plain now 
slumbering in their graves ; 

How many homes made desolate, how many 
hearts have sighed, 

How many like the drummer boy, who prayed 
before he died 1 


OLD GRIMES. 

•> BY ALBERT GORTON GREENE. 

The metrical composition entitled “ Old Grimes ” is one of the lyrics that do not go into 
obscurity. Sung often many years ago to “ Auld Lang Syne,” it still survives, and there are 
few readers who are not familiar with it. Its author was born in Providence, Rhode Island 
in 1802, graduated at Brown University in 1820, and was admitted to the bar in 1834. 


O LD Grimes is dead ; that good old man 
We ne’er shall see him more : 

He used to wear a long, black coat, 
All button’d down before. 

His heart was open as the day 
His feelings all were true; 

His hair was some inclined to gray— 

He wore it in a queue. 

Whene’er he heard the voice of pain 
His breast with pity burned ; 

The large, round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turned. 

Kind words he ever had for all; 

He knew no base design : 

His eyes were dark and rather small, 

His nose was aquiline. 


He lived at peace with all mankind, 

In friendship he was true : 

His coat had pocket-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes 
He passed securely o’er, 

And never wore a pair of boots 
For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune’s frown : 

He wore a dou ole-breasted vest— 

The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert: 

He had no malice in his mind. 

No ruffles on his shirt. 





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438 


His neighbors he did not abuse— 

Was sociable and gay : 

He wore large buckles on his shoes, 
And changed them every day. 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 
He did not bring to view, 

Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, 
As many people do. 


His worldly goods he never threw 
In trust to fortune’s chances. 

But lived (as all his brothers do) 

In easy circumstances. 

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares, 
His peaceful moments ran; 

And everybody said he was 
A fine old gentleman. 


THE DYING HEBREW. 

BY KIMBIE. 

The following poem, a favorite with the celebrated actor, the late Mr. Edwin Forrest, 
composed by a young law student, and first published in Boston in 1858. 


HEBREW knelt in the dying light, 
His eye was dim and cold; 

The hairs on his brow were silver white, 
And his blood was thin and old! 

He lifted his look to his latest sun, 

For ho knew that his pilgrimage wa3 done; 
And as he saw God’s shadow there, 

His spirit poured itself in prayer! 

“ I come unto Death’s second birth 
Beneath a stranger air, 

A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth, 

As all my fathers were ! 

And men have stamped me with a curse 
I feel it is not Thine; 

Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made 
On me, as them, to shine; 

“ And therefore dare I lift mine eye 
Though that to Thee before I die! 

In this great temple, built by Thee, 

Whose pillars are divine, 

Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselessly 
Lights up Thine own true shrine, 

Oh, take my latest sacrifice— 

Look down and make this sod 
Holy as that where, long ago, 

The Hebrew met his God. 

“ I have not caused the widow’s tears, 

Nor dimmed the orphan’s eye ; 

I have not stained the virgin’s years, 

Nor mocked the mourner’s cry. 

The songs of Zion in mine ear 
Have ever been most sweet, 


And always when I felt Thee near, 

My shoes were off my feet. 

I have known.Thee in the whirlwind, 

I have known Thee on the hill, 

I have loved Thee in the voiee of birds, 
Or the music of the rill; 

I dreamt Thee in the shadow, 

I saw Thee in the light; 

I blessed Thee in the radiant day, 

And worshipped Thee at night. 

All beauty, while it spoke of Thee, 

Still made my soul rejoice, 

And my spirit bowed within itself 
To hear Thy still, small voice ! 

“ I have not felt myself a thing, 

Far from Thy presence driven, 

By flaming sword or waving wing 
Shut off from Thee and heaven. 

Must I the whirlwind reap, because 
My fathers sowed the storm ? 

Or shrink, because another sinned, 
Beneath Thy red, right arm ? 

Oh, much of this we dimly scan, 

And much is all unknown ; 

But I will not take my curse from man— 
I turn to Thee alone ! 

Oh, bid my fainting spirit live, 

And what is dark reveal, 

And what is evil, oh, forgive, 

And what is broken heal. 

And cleanse my nature from above, 

In the dark Jordan of Thy love! 







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439 


“ I know not if the Christian’s heaven 
Shall be the same as mine ; 

I only ask to be forgiven, 

And taken home to Thine. 

I weary on a far, dim strand, 

Whose mansions are as tombs, 

And long to find the Fatherland, 

Where there are many homes. 

Oh, grant, of all yon starry thrones, 

Some dim and distant star, 

Where Judah’s lost and scattered sons 
May love Thee from afar. 

Where all earth’s myriad harps shall meet 
In choral praise and prayer, 

Shall Zion’s harp, of old so sweet, 

Alone be wanting there ? 

Yet place me in Thy lowest seat, 

Though I, as now, be there, 

The Christian’s scorn, the Christian’s jest; 

But let me see and hear, 

From some dim mansion in the sky, 

Thy bright ones and their melody.” 


The sun goes down with sudden gleam, 

And—beautiful as a lovely dream 
And silently as air— 

The vision of a dark-eyed girl, 

With long and raven hair, 

Glides in—as guardian spirits glide— 

And lo! is kneeling by his side, 

As if her sudden presence there 
Were sent in answer to his prayer. 

(Oh, say they not that angels tread 
Around the good man’s dying bed ?) 

His child—his sweet and sinless child— 
And as he gazed on her 

He knew his God was reconciled, 

And this the messenger, 

As sure as God had hung on high 
The promise bow before his eye— 
Earth’s purest hopes thus o’er him flung, 
To point his heavenward faith, 

And life’s most holy feeling strung 
To sing him into death ; 

And on his daughter’s stainless breast 
The dying Hebrew found his rest! 


WASHINGTON’S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS. 

BEFORE /THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND. 

Born 1732 ; died 1799. 


T HE time is now near at hand, which must 
probably determine whether Americans 
are to be freemen or slaves; whether 
they are to have any property they can call 
their own ; whether their houses and farms 
are to be pillaged and destroyed, and them¬ 
selves consigned to a state of wretchedness, 
from which no human efforts will deliver 
them. 

The fate of unborn millions will now de¬ 
pend, under God, on the courage and con¬ 
duct of this army. Our cruel and unrelent¬ 
ing enemy leaves us only the choice of a 
brave resistance, or the most abject submis¬ 
sion. We have, therefore, to resolve to con¬ 
quer or to die. 

Our own, our country’s honor, calls upon us 
for a vigorous and manly exertion; and if we 
now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous 
to the whole world. Let us, then, rely on 


the goodness of our cause, and the aid of the 
Supreme Being, in whose hands victory is, to 
animate and encourage us to great and noble 
actions. The eyes of all our countrymen are 
now upon us, and we shall have their blessings 
and praises, if happily we are the instruments 
of saving them from the tyranny meditated 
against them. Let us therefore animate and 
encourage each other, and show the whole 
world that a freeman contending for liberty on 
his own ground is superior to any slavish mer¬ 
cenary on earth. 

Liberty, property, life, and honor are all at 
stake; upon your courage and conduct rest 
the hopes of our bleeding and insulted coun¬ 
try ; our wives, children, and parents expect 
safety from us only; and they have every 
reason to believe that Heaven will crown with 
success so just a cause. 

The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by 





440 


FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


show and appearance; but remember they 
have been repulsed on various occasions by a 
few brave Americans. Their cause is bad—- 
their men are conscious of it; and, if opposed 
with firmness and coolness on their first onset, 


with our advantage of works and knowledge 
of the ground, the victory is most assuredly 
ours. Every good soldier will be silent and 
attentive—wait for orders—and reserve his 
fire until he is sure of doing execution. 


VISIT OF ST. NICHOLAS. 

BY CLEMENT C. MOORE. 

Born in New York, July 15, 1779 ; died in Rhode Island, July 10, 1863. 


? 'T'WAS the night before Christmas, when 
| all through the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a 
mouse; 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with 
care, 

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 
there. 

The children were nestled all snug in their 
beds 

AVhile visions of sugar-plums danced through 
their heads; 

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my 
cap, 

Had settled our brains for a long winter’s 
nap, 

When out on the lawn there arose such a 
clatter, 

I sprang from the bed to see what was the 
matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a flash, 

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 

When what to my wandering eyes should 
appear 

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, 

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called 
them by name: 

“ Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! 
and Vixen! 

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and 
Blitzen! 

To the top of the porch! to the top of the 
wall! 

Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all! ” 


As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane 

fly, 

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to 
the sky, 

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 

With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, 
too, 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof 

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof, 

As I drew in my head, and was turning 
around, 

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 
bound. 

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his 
foot, 

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes 
and soot; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 

And he looked like a peddler just opening his 
pack. 

His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how 
merry! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a 
cherry! 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a 
bow, 

And the beard of his chin was as white as the 
snow; 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in hisi 
teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a 
wreath. 

He had a broad face, and a little round belly 

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful 
of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old 
elf— 

And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of 
myself; 






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441 


A wink of his eye, and a twist of liis head, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his 
work, 

And filled all the stockings; then turned with 
a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 


He sprang to the sleigh, to the team gave a 
whistle, 

And away they all flew, like the down of a 
thistle, 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of 
sight, 

“ Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good¬ 
night ! ” 


THE BRAVEST SAILOR OF ALL. 

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 

Sometimes called the “poet of passion ; ” author of “Poems of Pleasure ; ” “ The Beauti¬ 
ful Land of Nod,” a book of verse for children : “ Poems of Passion,” and several novels. 
Born at Johnstown Centre, Wisconsin, in 1855; married Robert M. Wilcox, of Meriden, 
Connecticut, in 1884. 


I KNOW a naval officer, the bravest fight¬ 
ing man; 

He wears a jaunty sailor suit, his cap 
says “ Puritan.” 

And all day long he sails a ship between our 
land and Spain, 

And he avenges, every hour, the martyrs of 
the “ Maine.” 

His warship is six inches square, a wash-tub 
serves for ocean; 

But never yet, on any coast, was seen such 
dire commotion. 

With one skilled move his boat is sent from 
Cuba to midsea, 

And just as quickly back it comes to set 
Havana free. 


He fights with Dewey; plants his flag upon 
each island’s shore, 

Then off with Sampson’s fleet he goes to shed 
the Spanish gore. 

He comes to guard New England’s coast, but 
ere his anchor falls, 

He hurries off in frightful speed, to shell 
Manila’s walls. 

The Philippines so frequently have yielded 
to his power, 

There’s very little left of them, I’m certain, at 
this hour; 

And when at last he falls asleep, it is to wake 
again 

And hasten into troubled seas and go and 
conquer Spain. 


THERE’S DANGER IN THE TOWN. 


BY JOHN 

HERE, John, hitch Dobbin to the post; 
come near me, and sit down ; 

Your mother wants to talk to you before 
you drive to town. 

My hairs are gray, I shall soon be at rest 
within the grave; 

Not long will mother pilot you o’er life’s tem¬ 
pestuous wave. 

I’ve watched o’er you from infancy, till now 
you are a man, 


H. YATES. 

And I have always loved you, as a mother 
only can; 

At morning and at evening I have prayed the 
God of love 

To bless and guide my darling boy to the 
bright home above. 

A mother’s eye is searching, John—old age 
can’t dim its sight, 

When watching o’er an only child, to see if 
he does right: 








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And very lately I have seen what has aroused 
ray fears, 

And made ray pillow hard at night, and moist¬ 
ened it with tears. 

I’ve seen a light within your eye, upon your 
cheeks a glow, 

That told me you are in the road that leads 
to shame and woe ; 

Oh, John, don’t turn away your head and on 
my counsel frown, 

Stay more upon the dear old farm—there’s 
danger in the town. 

Remember what the poet says—long years 
have proved it true— 

That “ Satan finds some mischief still for idle 
hands to do.” 

If you live on in idleness, with those who 
love the bowl, 


You’ll dig yourself a drunkard’s grave, and 
wreck your reckless soul. 

Your father, John, is growing old, his days 
are nearly through, 

Oh, he has labored very hard to save the farm 
for you ; 

But it will go to ruin soon, and poverty will 
frown 

If you keep hitching Dobbin up to drive into 
the town. 

Turn back, my boy, in your youth, stay by 
the dear old farm ; 

The Lord of Hosts will save you with His 
powerful right arm ; 

Not long will mother pilot you o’er life’s 
tempestuous wave, 

Then light her pathway with your love down 
to the silent grave. 


THE DRUMMER-BOY’S BURIAL. 


A LL day long the storm of battle through 
the startled valley swept; 

All night long the stars in heaven o’er 
the slain sad vigils kept. 

0, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely 
through the night! 

O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim 
sepulchral light! 

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length 
the morning broke, 

But not one of all the sleepers on that field of 
death awoke. 

Slowly passed the golden hours of that long 
bright summer day, 

And upon that field of carnage still the dead 
unburied lay. 

Lay there stark aud cold, but pleading with a 
dumb, unceasing prayer, 

For a little dust to hide them from the staring 
sun and air. 

But the foeman held possession of the hard- 
won battle-plain, 

In unholy wrath denying even burial to our 
slain. 


Once again the night dropped round them— 
night so holy and so calm 

That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like 
the sound of prayer or psalm. 

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart 
from all the rest, 

Lay a fair young boy, with small bands 
meekly folded on his breast. 

Death had touched him very gently, and he 
lay as if in sleep ; 

E’en his ow n mother scarce had shuddered at 
that slumber calm and deep. 

For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a 
radiance to the face, 

And the hand of cunning sculptor could have 
added naught of grace. 

To the marble limbs so perfect in their pas¬ 
sionless repose, 

Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, 
unpitying foes. 

And the broken drum beside him all his life’s 
short story told : 

How he did his duty bravely till the death- 
tide o’er him rolled. 






FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


443 


Midnight came with ebon garments and a 
diadem of stars, 

While right upward in the zenith hung the 
fiery planet Mars. 

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of 
voices whispering low, 

Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the 
brooklet’s murmuring flow? 

Clinging closely to each other, striving never 
to look round, 

As they passed with silent shudder the pale j 
corses on the ground. 

Came two little maidens—sisters—with a 
light and hasty tread, 

And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, 
half of dread. 

And they did not pause nor falter till, with 
throbbing hearts, they stood 

Where the drummer-boy was lying in that 
partial solitude. 

They had brought some simple garments from 
their wardrobe’s scanty store, 

And two heavy iron shovels in their slender 
hands they bore. 

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing 
back the pitying tears, 


! For they had no time for weeping, nor for any 
girlish fears. 

And they robed the icy body, while no glow 
of maiden shame 

Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a 
flush of lambent flame. 

For their saintly hearts yearned o’er it in that 
hour of sorest need, 

And they felt that Death was holy, and it 
sanctified the deed. 

But they smiled and kissed each other when 
their new strange task was o’er, 

And the form that lay before them its unwonted 
garments wore. 

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave 
they hollowed out, 

And they lined it with the withered grass and 
leaves that lay about. 

But the day was slowly breaking ere their 
holy w r ork was done, 

And in crimson pomp the morning heralded 
again the sun. 

Gently then those little maidens—they were 
children of our foes— 

Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undis¬ 
turbed repose. 


PRESS. ON. 

BY PARK BENJAMIN. 


Journalist and poet; born in 1809 at Demerara, Guiana, where his father was engaged 
in trade; educated at Harvard and at Hartford, Connecticut; published a literary journal 
with R. W. Griswold, entitled “The New York World;” distinguished for lyrical poems 
and sonnets of elegant diction and beauty of thought. Died in 1864. 


P RESS on ! there’s no such word as fail; 
Press nobly on ! the goal is near ; 
Ascend the mountain ! breast the gale! 
Look upward, onward—never fear! [above 
Why shouldst thou faint? Heaven smiles 
Though storm and vapor intervene ; 

That sun shines on, whose name is love, 
Serenely o’er life’s shadowed scene. 

Press on l surmount the rocky steeps, 

Climb boldly o’er the torrents’ arch ; 

He fails alone who feebly creeps ; 

He wins who dares the hero’s march. 


Be thou a hero ! let thy might 
Tramp on eternal snows its way, 

And through the ebon walls of night, 
Hew down a passage unto day. 

Press on ! if once, and twice thy feet 
Slip back and stumble, harder try; 
From him who never dreads to meet 
Danger and death, they’re sure to fly. 
To coward ranks the bullet speeds; 

While on their breasts who never quail, 
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, 
Bright courage, like a coat of mail. 





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Press on ! if fortune play thee false 
To-day, to-morrow she’ll be true ; 

Whom now she sinks, she now exalts, 

Taking old gifts and granting new. 

The wisdom of the present hour 
Makes up for follies past and gone ; 

To weakness strength succeeds, aud power 
From frailty springs —Press on ! Press on ! 

Press on / what though upon the ground 
Thy love has been poured out like rain ? 

That happiness is always found 
The sweetest that is born of pain. 


Oft mid the forest’s deepest glooms, 

A bird sings from some blighted tree ; 

And in the dreariest desert blooms 
A never dying rose for thee. 

Therefore, press on ! and reach the goal, 
And gain the prize, and wear the crown; 

Faint not! for to the steadfast soul, 

Come wealth and honor and renown. 

To thine ownself be true, and keep 

Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; 

Press on ! and thou shalt surely reap 
A heavenly harvest for thy toil. 


THE LIGHT OP KNOWLEDGE. 

BY ELIHU BURRITT. 

He acquired the title of the “Learned Blacksmith,” on account of having a command 
of nearly thirty languages, a knowledge of which he acquired at the forge and during hours 
when he was not at work. He was a prominent supporter of the Peace Society aud other 
reforms. His first work, called “Sparks from the Anvil,” was followed by others, including 
his lectures and speeches, and accounts of his travels. Born in New Britain, Connecticut, in 
1810, and died March 6, 1879. 


K NOWLEDGE cannot be stolen from you. 
It cannot be bought or sold. You may 
be poor, and the sheriff come into your 
house, and sell your furniture at auction, or 
drive away your cow, or take your lamb, and 
leave you homeless and penniless; but he can¬ 
not lay the law’s hand upon the jewelry of 
your mind. This cannot be taken for debt: 
neither can you give it away, though you 
give enough of it to fill a million minds. 

I will tell you what such giving is like. 
Suppose, now, that there were no sun nor stars 
in the heavens, nor anything that shone in 
the black brow of night; and suppose that a 
lighted lamp were put into your hand, which 
would burn wasteless and clear amid all the 
tempests that should brood upon this lower 
world. 

Suppose, next, that there were a thousand 
millions of human beings on the earth with 
you, each holding in his hand an uulighted 
lamp, filled with the same oil as yours, and 
capable of giving as much light. Suppose 
these millions should come, one by one, to you 
and light each his lamp by yours, would they 
rob you of any light ? Would less of it shine 


on your path? Would your lamp burn more 
dimly for lighting a thousand millions ? 

Thus it is, young friends. In getting rich 
in the things which perish with the using, men 
have often obeyed to the letter that first com¬ 
mandment of selfishness: “Keep what you 
can get, and get what you can.” In filling 
your minds with the wealth of knowledge, 
you must reverse this rule, and obey this law: 
“ Keep what you give, and give what you can.” 

The fountain of knowledge is filled by its 
outlets, not by its inlets. You can learn 
nothing which you do not teach ; you can 
acquire nothing of intellectual wealth, except 
by giving. In the illustration of the lamps, 
which I have given you, was not the light of 
the thousands of millions which were lighted 
at yours as much your light, as if it all came 
from your solitary lamp ? Did you not dispel 
darkness by giving away light ? 

Remember this parable, and, whenever you 
fall in with an unenlightened mind in your 
walk of life, drop a kind and glowing thought 
upon it from yours, and set it a-burningin the 
world with a light that shall shine in some 
dark place to beam on the benighted. 





FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 


445 


If we understand by a “ classic ” a production of acknowledged merit and permanent 
reputation, the accompanying poem, long known with its appropriate music as one of our 
most popular songs, must be denominated a classic, although it is about the only lyric by 
which the author is known. It was written when Mr. Woodworth was living in New York 
City. One day he came into the house, and pouring out a glass of water, drained it eagerly. 
As he set it down he exclaimed, “ That is very refreshing, but how much more refreshing 
would it be to take a good long draught from the old oaken bucket I left hanging in my 
father’s well at home.” 

“Selim,” said his wife, “ wouldn’t that be a pretty subject for a poem ? ” At this sugges¬ 
tion, Woodworth seized his pen, and as the home of his childhood rose vividly to his fancy, 
he wrote the now familiar words. Born at Scituate, Mass., in 1785 : died in 1842. 


H OW dear to this heart are the scenes of 
my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them 
to view ! 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
wildwood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy 
knew! 

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that 
stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract 
fell, 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh 
it, 

And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the 
well— 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 
well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, 
For often at noon, when returned from the 
field, 

I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
The purest and sweetest that nature can 
yield. 


How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
glowing, 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it 
fell; 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth over¬ 
flowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
the well— 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to re¬ 
ceive it, 

As posed on the curb it inclined to my lips! 

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips, 

And now, far removed from the loved habi¬ 
tation, 

The tear ot regret will intrusively swell, 

As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the 
well— 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the 
well! 


THE FATE OF GENERAL BURGOYNE, 1777. 


W HEN Jack, the King’s commander, 

Was going to his duty, [bowed, 
Through all the crowd he smiled and 
To every blooming beauty. 

The city rung with feats he’d done, 

In Portugal and Flanders, 

And all the town thought he’d be crowned 
The first of Alexanders. 


To Hampton Court he first repairs, 

To kiss great George’s hand, sirs, 
Then to harangue on state affairs, 

Before he left the land, sirs, 

The “ lower house ” sat mute as mouse, 
To hear his grand oration • 

And “ all the peers,” with loudest cheers, 
Proclaimed him to the nation. 







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Then off he went to Canada, 

Next to Ticonderoga, 

And quitting those, away he goes, 
Straightway to Saratoga. 

With great parade his march he made, 
To gain his wished-for-station, 

When far and wide his minions hied, 

To spread his “ Proclamation.” 

To such as stayed he offers made, 

Of “pardon on submission ; 

But savage bands should waste the lands 
Of all in opposition.” 

But ah, the cruel fate of war 

This boasted son of Britain, 

When mounting his triumphal car, 

With sudden fear was smitten. 


The sons of freedom gathered round, 

His hostile bands confounded, 

And when they’d fain have turned their back, 
They found themselves surrounded! 

In vain they fought, in vain they fled, 

Their chief, humane and tender. 

To save the rest, soon thought it best 
His forces to surrender. 

Brave St. Clair when he first retired 

Knew what the fates portended ; 

And Arnold and heroic Gates 

His conduct have defended. 

Thus may America’s brave sons 
AVith honor be rewarded, 

And be the fate of all her foes 
The same as here recorded. 


THE DIGNITY OF LABOR. 

BY PRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

The accompanying poem is one of the gems of our literature, noble in sentiment and 
beautifully expressed. Born in Boston about 1812, the author married Mr. S. S. Osgood, a 
distinguished artist, in 1835. AVhile residing in London she published a book of poems of 
acknowledged merit entitled, “A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England.” After her 
return she edited the souvenirs entitled “ The Floral Offering” and “ The Poetry of Flowers.” 
Died in 1850. 


P AUSE not to dream of the future before us; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that 
come o’er us; 

Hark how creation’s deep, musical chorus, 
Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! 

Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
More and more richly the rose heart keeps 
glowing, 

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

“ Labor is worship! ” the robin is singing; 

“ Labor is worship! ” the wild bee is ringing: 
Listen ! that eloquent whisper, upspringing 
Speaks to thy soul from out nature’s great 
heart. 

From the dark cloud flows the life-giving 
shower; 

From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing 
flower; 

Fi’om the small insect, the rich coral bower; 
Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. 


Labor is life!—’Tis the still water faileth ; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewailetli; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust 
assaileth: [noon. 

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of 

Labor is glory !—the flying cloud lightens; 

Only the waving wing changes and brightens; 

Idle hearts only the dark future frightens: 

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep 
them in tune! 

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, 

Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 

Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 

Rest from world-sirens ti.at lure us to ill. 

AVork—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy 
pillows; 

AA^ork—thou shalt ride over care’s coming 
billows! 

Lie not down wearied ’neath woe’s weeping 
willow! 

Work with a stout heart and resolute will! 





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447 


Labor is health !—Lo! the husbandman 
reaping, 

How through his veins goes the life-current 
leaping! 

How his strong arm in its stalwart pride 
sweeping, 

True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. 

Labor is wealth—in the sea the pearl groweth; 

Rich the queen’s robe from the frail cocoon 
floweth; 

From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; 

Temple and statue the marble block bides. 


Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish 
are round thee; 

Bravely fling off the cold chain that bath 
bound thee! 

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond 
thee: 

Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod! 

Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; 

Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly: 

Labor!—all labor is noble and holy ; 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy 
God. 


DECORATION DAY. 


BY THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. 


Hi storian, biographer and essayist; prominent in the struggle to make Kansas a free 
State and in the Civil War; born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, December 22, 1823 ; gradu¬ 
ated at Harvard in 1841; and for a time Unitarian minister at Newburyport and Worcester, 
Massachusetts. 


? IV /I ID the flower-wreathed tombs I stand, 
Bearing lillies in my hand. 
Comrades! in what soldier-grave 
Sleep the bravest of the brave ? 

Is it he who sank to rest 
With his colors round his breast ? 
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine, 
Garlands veil it; ask not mine. 

One low grave, yon trees beneath, 

Bears no roses, wears no wreath ; 

Yet no heart more high and warm 
Ever dared the battle-storm. 

Never gleamed a prouder eye 
In the front of victory ; 


Never foot had firmer tread 
On the field where hope lay dead, 

Than are hid within this tomb, 
Where the untended grasses bloom ; 
And no stone, with feigned distress, 
Mocks the sacred loneliness. 

Youth and beauty, dauntless will, 
Dreams that life could ne’er fulfil, 
Here lie buried—here in peace 
Wrongs and woes have found release. 

Turning from my comrades’ eyes, 
Kneeling where a woman lies, 

I strew lillies on the grave 
Of the bravest of the brave. 


JOHN MAYNARD. 


BY HORATIO ALGER, Jr. 

A voluminous writer for young people and author of instructive works, including lives 
of Webster, Lincoln and Garfield ; also a volume of poems and a novel entitled Helen 
Ford;” born at Revere, Massachusetts, January 13,1834,and graduated at Harvard College 
in 1852. 


V | ''WAS on Lake Erie’s broad expanse, 
One bright midsummer day, 

The gallant steamer Ocean Queen 
Swept proudly on her way. 


Bright faces clustered on the deck, 

Or leaning o’er the side, 

Watched carelessly the feathery foam, 
That flecked the rippling tide. 







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Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, 

That smiling bends serene, 

Could dream that danger, awful, vast, 
Impended o’er the scene— 

Could dream that ere an hour had sped, 

That frame of sturdy oak 
Would sink beneath the lake’s blue waves, 
Blackened with fire and smoke ? 

A seaman sought the captain’s side, 

A moment whispered low; 

The captain’s swarthy face grew pale, 

He hurried down below. 

Alas, too late! Though quick and sharp 
And clear his order came, 

No human effort could avail 
To quench the insidious flame. 

The bad news quickly reached the deck, 

It sped from lip to lip, 

And ghastly faces everywhere 
Looked from the doomed ship. 

“ Is there no hope—no chance of life ? 

A hundred lips implore ; 

“ But one,” the captain made reply, 

“ To run the ship on shore.” 

A sailor, whose heroic soul 
That hour should yet reveal— 

By name John Maynard, eastern born— 
Stoodly calmly at the wheel. 

“ Head her southeast! ” the captain shouts 
Above the smothered roar, 

“ Head her southeast without delay ! 

Make for the nearest shore ! ” 

No terror pales the helmsman’s cheek, 

Or clouds his dauntless eye, 

As in a sailor’s measured tone 
His voice responds, “Ay, Ay ! ” 

Three hundred souls—the steamer’s freight— 
Crowd forward wild with fear, 


While at the stern the dreadful flames— 
Above the deck appear. 

John Maynard watched the nearing flames, 
But still, with steady hand 
He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly 
He steered the ship to land. 

“ John Maynard,” with an anxious voice, 

The captain cries once more, 

“ Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, 

And we will reach the shore.” 

Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart 
Responded firmly, still 
Unawed, though face to face with death, 

“ With God’s good help I will! ” 

The flames approached with giant strides, 
They scorch his hands and brow • 

One arm disabled seeks his side 
Ah, he is conquered now ! 

But no, his teeth are firmly set, 

He crushes down the pain— 

His knee upon the stanchion pressed, 

He guides the ship again. 

One moment yet! one moment yet! 

Brave heart, thy task is o’er! 

The pebbles grate beneath the keel, 

The steamer touches shore. 

Three hundred grateful voices rise, 

In praise to God, that He 
Hath saved them from the fearful fire, 

And from the ingulfing sea. 

But where is he, that helmsman bold ? 

The captain saw him reel— 

His nerveless hands released their task, 

He sunk beside the wheel. 

The wave received his lifeless corpse, 
Blackened with smoke and fire. 

God rest him ! Hero never had 
A nobler funeral pyre! 


THE SONG OF THE PRAIRIE. 

BY I. K. MITCHELL. 


O FLY to the prairie, sweet maiden, with 
me, [the sea: 

’Tis as green and as wide and as wild as 
O’er its soft silken bosom the summer winds 
glide, 

And wave the wild grass in its billowy pride. 


The city’s a prison too narrow for thee— 
Then away to the prairies so boundles and 
free: 

Where the sight is not checked till the prairie 
and skies, 

In harmony blending, commingle their dye3. 







FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


449 


The fawns in the meadow-fields fearlessly play — 
Away to the chase, lovely maiden, away! 
Bound, bound to thy courser, the bison is near, 
And list to the tramp of the light-footed deer. 

Let England exult in her dogs and her chase— 
0! what’s a king’s park to this limitless space! 
No fences to leap and no thickets to turn, 

No owners to injure, no furrows to spurn. 

But, softly as thine on the carpeted hall, 

Is heard the light foot of the courser to fall; 
And close-matted grass no impression receives, 
As ironless hoofs bound aloft from the leaves. 

O, fly to the prairie! the eagle is there : 

He gracefully w 7 heels in the cloud-speckled air 
And, timidly hiding her delicate young, 

The prairie-hen hushes her beautiful song. 

O, fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me! 
The vine and the prairie-rose blossom for thee ; 
And, hailing the moon in the prairie-propped 
sky, 

The mocking-bird echoes the katydid’s cry. 

Let Mexicans boast of their herds and their 
steeds. 

The free prairie-hunter no shepherd-boy needs : 
The bison, like clouds, overshadow the place, 
And the wild, spotted coursers invite to the 
chase. 

The former may boast of his grass and his 
grain— 

He sows them in labor, and reaps them in pain ; 


But here the deep soil no exertion requires, 
Enriched by the ashes, and cleared by the fires. 

The woodman delights in his trees and his 
shade; 

But see there’s no sun on the cheek of his 
maid; 

His flowers are faded, his blossoms are pale, 
And mildew is riding his vaporous gale. 

Then fly to the prairie! in wonder there gaze, 
As sweeps o’er the grass the magnificent blaze, 
The land is o’erwhelmed in an ocean of light, 
Whose flame-surges break in the breeze of the 
night. 

Sublime from the north comes wind in his 
wrath, 

And scatters the reeds in his desolate path ; 
Or, loaded with incense, steals iu from the 
west, 

As bees from the prairie-rose fly to their nest. 

O, fly to the prairie ! for freedom is there! 
Love lights not that home with the torch of 
despair ! 

No wretch to entreat, and no lord to deny, 

No gossips to slander, no neighbor to pry. 

But, struggling not there the heart’s impulse 
to hide, 

Love leaps like the fount from the crystal-rock 
side, 

And strong as its adamant, pure as its spring, 
Waves wildly in sunbeams his rose-colored 
wing. 


RAIN ON THE ROOF. 

BY COATES KINNEY. 

Wide popularity has attended the following poem, which is the best-known production 
of the author. He was born in 1826 near Penn Yan, New York, and was successively school¬ 
teacher, journalist and lawyer. 

W HEN the humid shadows hover 
Over all the starry spheres, 

And the melancholy darkness 
Gently weeps in rainy tears, 

What a joy to press the pillow 
Of a cottage chamber bed, 

And to listen to the patter 
Of the soft rain overhead! 


Every tinkle on the shingles 
Has an echo in the heart; 

And a thousand dreamy fancies 
Into busy being start; 

And a thousand recollections 

Weave their bright hues into woof 
As I listen to the patter 
Of the rain upon the roof. 


29 





450 


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Now in fancy comes my mother, 

As she used to, years agone, 

To survey her darling dreamers, 

Ere she left them till the dawn ; 
Oh! I see her bending o’er me, 

As I list to this refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles 
By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister, 

With her wings and waving hair, 
And her bright-eyed cherub brother, 
A serene, angelic pair! 


Glide around my wakeful pillow 
With their praise or mild reproof, 
As I listen to the murmur 
Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill me 
With her eyes’ delicious blue, 

And forgot I, gazing on her, 

That her heart was all untrue; 

I remember but to love her 
With a rapture kin to pain ; 

And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate 
To the patter of the raiu. 


RODNEY’S RIDE. 

BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS. 


I N that soft mid-land where the breezes bear 
The north and the south on the genial air, 
Through the county of Kent, on affairs of 
state, 

Rode Csesar Rodney, the delegate. 

Burly and big, and bold and bluff, 

In his three-cornered hat and his suit of snuff*, 
A foe to King George and the English state 
Was Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 

Into Dover village he rode apace, 

And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious 
face, 

It was matter grave that had brought him 
there, 

To the counties three upon Delaware. 

“Money and men we must have,” he said, 
“Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead 
Give us both aud the king shall not work his 
will; 

We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill! ” 

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay: 

“ Hold, Rodney, ho! you must save the day, 
For the Congress halts at a deed so great, 

And your vote alone may decide its fate! ” 

Answered Rodney then: “ I will ride with 
speed, 

It is liberty’s stress; it is freedom’s need. 
When stands it?” “ To-night. Not a moment 
spare, 

But ride like the wind, from the Delaware ! ” 


‘ Ho, saddle the black ! I’ve but half a day, 
And the Congress sits eighty miles away— 
But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace, 
To shake my fist in King George’s face.” 

He is up ; he is off! and the black horse flies, 
On the northward road ere the “God-speed ! ” 
dies. 

It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear, 
And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear. 

It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs 
fling 

The Fieldsboro’ dust with a clang and cling. 
It is three: and he gallops with slack rein 
where 

The road winds down to the Delaware. 

Four ; and he spurs into Newcastle tow r n, 
From his panting steed he gets him down— 

“ A fresh one, quick; not a moment’s 
wait! ” 

And off speeds Rodney the delegate. 

It is five; and the beams of the western sun 
Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and 
dun; 

Six ; aud the dust of the Chester street 
Flies back in a cloud from his courser’s feet. 

It is seven ; the horse boat, broad of beam, 
At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the 
stream; 





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451 


And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock 
He flings his rein to the tavern Jock. 

The Congress is met; the debate’s begun, 
And liberty lags for the vote of one— 

When into the hall not a moment late, 

Walks Csesar Rodney the delegate. 

Not a moment late ! and that half-day’s ride 
Forwards the world with a mighty stride— 


For the Act was passed, ere the midnight 
stroke 

O’er the Quaker city its echoes woke. 

At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung; 

“We are free!” all the bells through the 
colonies rung. 

And the sons of the free may recall with 
pride 

The day of delegate Rodney’s ride. 


A SUMMER GIRL. 

BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. 


S HE wears a saucy hat. 

And her feet go pit-a-pat 
As she walks; 

And the sweetest music slips 
From her merry madding lips 
When she talks. 

She fascinates the street 
With her gaiters trim and neat, 
Made of kid; 

For they twinkle as they pass 
Like the rillets in the grass, 
Half-way hid. 

Her skin is soft and white, 

Like magnolia buds at night 
On the bough ; 


But for fear she’d be too fair 
There’s a freckle hi-re and there 
On her brow. 

Dimples play at hide and seek 
On her apple-blossom cheek 
And her chin, 

Slyly beckoning to you, 

“ Don’t you think it’s lime to woo ? 
Pray begin.” 

Then her winsome, witching eyes 
Flash like bits of summer skies 
O’er her fan, 

As if to say, “ We’ve met; 

You may go now and forget— 

If you can.” 


THE MONEYLESS MAN. 

BY IIENRY T. STANTON. 


I S there no secret spot on the face of the earth, 
Where charity dwelleth, where virtue 
hath birth ? 

Where bosoms in mercy and kindness shall 
heave, 

And the poor and the wretched shall “ask 
and receive? ” 

Is there no place on earth where a knock from 
the poor 

Will bring a kind angel to open the door? 

Ah! search the wide world wherever you 
can, 

There is no open door for a moneyless man! 


Go, look in your hall, where the chandelier’s 
light 

Drives ofF with its splendor the darkness of 
night, 

Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy 
fold, 

Sweeps gracefully down with its trimming of 
gold, 

And the mirrors of silver take up and renew, 

In long lighted vistas, the wildering view— 

Go there in your patches, and find if you 
can 

A welcoming smile for the moneyless man ! 







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Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching 
spire, 

Which gives back to the sun his same look 
of red fire, 

Where the arches and columns are gorgeous 
within, 

And the walls seem as pure as a soul without 
sin; 

Go down the long aisle—see the rich and the 
great, 

In the pomp and the pride of their worldly 
estate— 

Walk down in your patches, and find, if you 
can 

Who opens a pew to a moneyless man. 

Go, look on yon judge in the dark flowing 
gown, 

With the scales wherein law weigheth equity 
down, 

Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on 
the strong, 

And punishes right where he justifies wrong; 

Where jurors their lips on the Bible have laid, 

To render a verdict they’ve already made; 

Go, there in the court-room, and find if you can, 

Any law for the cause of a moneyless man ! 


Go, look in the banks where mammon has 
told 

His hundreds and thousands of silver and 
gold; 

Where safe from the hand of the starving and 
poor, 

Lays pile upon pile of the glittering ore: 

Walk up to the counter—and there you may 
stay 

Till your limbs grow old and your hair turns 
grey, 

And you’ll find at the banks no one of the 
clan 

With money to loan to a moneyless man! 

Then go to your hovel; no raven has fed 

The wife who has suffered too long for her 
bread ; 

Kneel down on the pallet and kiss the death 
frost 

From the lips of the angel your poverty lost; 

Then turn in your agony upward to God, 

And bless while it smites you, the chastening 
rod ; 

And you’ll find at the end of your little life’s 
span. 

There’s a welcome above for a moneyless man! 


TO THE LADIES. 

In the year 1768, the people of Boston resolved that they would not import any tea, 
glass, paper, or other commodities commonly brought from Great Britain, until the act impos¬ 
ing duties upon all such articles should be repealed. This poetical appeal to the ladies of the 
country, to lend a “ helping hand ” for the furtherance of that resolution, appeared in the 
Boston “ News Letter,” anonymously. 


Y OUNG ladies in town, and those that live 
round, 

Let a friend at this season advise you ; 
Since money’s so scarce, and times growing 
worse, [you. 

Strange things may soon hap and surprise 

First, then, throw aside your topknots of pride; 

Wear none but your own country linen ; 

Of economy boast, let your pride be the most 
To show clothes of your own make and 
spinning. 

What if homespun they say is not quite so gay 
As brocades, yet be not in a passion, 


For when once it is known this is much worn 
in town, 

One and all will cry out—’Tis the fashion! 

And, as one, all agree, that you’ll not married 
be 

To such as will wear London factory, 

But at first sight refuse, tell ’em such you will 
choose 

As encourage our own manufactory. 

No more ribbons wear, nor in rich silks ap¬ 
pear: 

Love your country much better than fine 
things; 





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453 


Being without passion, ’twill soon be the fashion 
To grace your smooth locks with a twine 
string. 

Throw aside your Bohea, and your Green Hy¬ 
son tea, 

And all things with a new-fashion duty : 
Procure a good store of the choice Labrador, 
For there’ll soon be enough here suit to 
you. 


These do without fear, and to all you’ll appear 
Fair, charming, true, lovely and clever ; 
Though the times remain darkish, young men 
may be sparkish, 

And love you much stronger than ever. 

Then make yourselves easy, for no one will 
teaze ye, 

Nor tax you, if chancing to sneer [fools; 
At the sense-ridden tools, who think us all 
But they’ll find the reverse far and near. 


LOVE’S SEASONS 

BY AMELIA RIVES CHANDLER. 

Born in Richmond, Virginia, August 23, 1363. At an early age became a contributor 
to magazines; wrote “ The Quick and the Dead,” and other works that exhibit unusual 
intellectual strength, passion and disregard of conventional whims and fancies. 


T HE wall-flowers to the frolic wind 
Do Dance their golden aigelets, 

And elf-maids steal the hawthorn beads 
To wear for fairy amulets. 

The spring is here, the spring is here— 

The love-time of the year, my dear! 

All heavy hang the apple boughs, 

Weighed down by balls of yellow gold ; 
The poppy cups, so fiery bright, 

Me seems would burn the hearts they hold, 
The summer’s here, the summer’s here— 

The kiss-time of the year, my dear! 


The birds are winging for the south, 

The elf-maids haste them to their bowers, 
And dandelion balls do float 

Like silver ghosts of golden flowers. 

The autumn’s here, the autumn’s here— 
The wife-time of the year, my dear! 

Now are the heavens not more gray 
Than are the eyes of her I love; 

More dainty white than her sweet breast 
The snow lies not the earth above. 

The winter’s here, the winter’s here— 

But love-time lasts the year, my dear! 


COLLINET AND PHEBE. 


This song of 1776 was long popular among the colonists. It was first printed in the 
Pennsylvania Magazine, and occasionally reprinted in the newspapers, as the war progressed. 


A S Collinet and Phebe sat 

Beneath a poplar grove, 

The gentle youth, with fondest truth, 

Was telling tales of love. 

“ Dear blooming maid,” the shepherd said, 
“ My tender vows believe, 

These downcast eyes, and artless sighs, 

Can ne’er thy faith deceive. 

“ Though some there are. from fair to fair, 
Delighting wild to rove, 

Such change thou ne’ei from me canst fear; 
Thy charms secure my love. 


“ Then Phebe now r , approve my vow, 
By truth, by fondness pressed ; 

A smile assume to grace thy bloom, 
And make the shepherd blest.” 

A blush o’erspread her cheek with red, 
Which half she turned aside ; 

With pleasing woes her bosom rose, 
And thus the maid replied— 

“ Dear gentle youth, I know thy truth, 
And all thy arts to please ; 

But ah ! is this a time for bliss, 

Or themes os soft as those ? 








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“ While all around, we hear no sound 
But war’s terrific strain ! 

The drum commands our arming bands, 
And chides each tardy swain. 

“ Our conntry’s call arouses all, 

Who dare be brave and free! 

My love shall crown the youth alone, 
Who saves himself and me.” 


“ ’Tis done ! ” he cried, “ from thy dear side 
Now quickly I’ll be gone ; 

From love will I to freedom fly, 

A slave to thee alone. 

“ And when I come with laurels home, 

Ami all that freemen crave, 

To crown my love, your smiles shall prove, 
The fair reward the brave.” 


THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE. 

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. 

The author of this famous poem—the only one likely to perpetuate his name—was born 
at Lexington, Kentucky, in 1819; wrote “ Alban the Pirate, and Other Poems; ” died in 1881. 


B LESSINGS on the hand of woman ! 

Angels guard its strength and grace. 
In the palace, cottage, hovel, 

Oh, no matter where the place, 
Would that never storms assailed it 
Rainbows ever gently curled, 

For the hand that rocks the cradle 
Is the hand that rules the world. 

Infancy’s the tender fountain, 

Power may with beauty flow, 
Mothers first to guide the streamlets, 
From them souls unresting grow— 
Grow on for good or evil, 

Sunshine streamed or evil hurled, 
For the hand that rocks the cradle 
Is the hand that rules the world. 


Woman, how divine your mission, 
Here upon our natal sod ; 

Keep—oh, keep the young heart open 
Always to the breath of God ! 

All true trophies of the ages 
Are from mother love impearled, 
For the hand that rocks the cradle 
Is the hand that rules the world. 

Blessings on the hand of woman ! 

Fathers, sons and daughters cry, 
And the sacred song is mingled 
With the worship in the sky— 
Mingles where no tempest darkens, 
Rainbows evermore are hurled : 
For the hand that rocks the cradle 
Is the hand that rules the world. 


OLD FARMER GRUDGE. 


O LD Farmer Grudge was determined to 
trudge 

In the same old way that his father 
went: 

To toil and to slave, to pinch and to save, 

Nor spend on a pleasure a single cent. 

His tools were few, and so rusty, too, 

For want of the needful drop of oil, 

That, creaky and slow, they were forced to go, 
And added much to his daily toil. 

His crops were scant, for he would not plant 
Enough to cover his scanty field ; 


But grumbled and growled, and always scowled 
At harvest over the meagre yield. 

And from the paltry store on the threshing 
floor, 

From gaping mow and neglected bin, 
Would voices cry as he passed them by, 

“ You can’t take out what you don’t put 
in!” 

Old Farmer Grudge was a doleful drudge, 
And in his dwelling and on his land, 

’Twas plain to be seen, he was shrewd and keen, 
And managed all with a miserly hand. 







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455 


There was little wool, there was little food ; 

Oh, bare, indeed, was the pantry shelf! 
Since he took no heed to another’s need, 

So he was warm and well fed himself. 

The wife, it is true, would skimp and screw, 
Piece and patch, and some way plan, 

As woman will, with amazing skill, 

Who is tied for life to a stingy man ; 

But, oh, how she sighed for the things 
denied ! 

The books, and comfort, and larger life 


For which she dreamed and for which she 
schemed, [wife. 

When consenting to be Farmer Grudges’ 

But Farmer Grudge not an inch would budge 
From the path his penurious father trod ; 
But though very rich would work in a ditch; 

All day, ai.d at dusk in a corner nod, 

And bis girls and boys, bereft of the joys 
That others had, were disposed to roam, 
And to spend profuse, nor put to use 

The lessons they had been taught at home. 


OPPORTUNITY. 


BY CLARA J. DENTON. 


A SEED came floating near me, 
A brown and paltry thing, 
It seemed an idle pastime 
To stay its hasty wing. 


And then the plant beholding. 
My tears fell freely down, 
The seed was O, so paltry, 

And light as thistle down. 


But low ! my neighbor grasped it. 
And ’neath her watchful care, 
It grew and gave her freely 
A wreath of blossoms rare. 


Why was there none to whisper, 
“ ’Tis opportunity ! ” 

The bloom and fragrance yonder 
Would then have been for me. 


THE OLD CONTINENTALS. 

BY GUY HUMPHREYS MACMASTER. 


Born at Clyde, New York, in 1829 ; graduated at Hamilton College, 1847 ; lawyer, and 
judge of Steuben County, New York; wrote “Carmen Belicosum; ” died in 1887. 


I N their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 

When the grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot; 

When the files 
Of the isles, 

From the smoky night encampment, bore the 
banner of the rampant 
Unicorn, 

And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the 
roll of the drummer, 

Through the morn! 


Then with eyes to the front all, 

And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires; 

And the balls whistled deadly, 

And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires; 

As the roar 
On the shore, 

Swept the strong battle-breakers o’er the green- 
sodded acres 

Of the plain; 

And louder, louder, louder cracked the black 
gunpowder, 

Cracking amain! 







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Now like smiths :it their forges 
Worked the red Sl. George’s 
Couimoucrs; 

And the “ villianous saltpetre” 

Rung a fierce, discordant metre 
Round their ears; 

As the swift 
Storm-drift, 

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse- 
guards’ clangor 

On our flanks; 

Then higher, higher, higher burned the old- 
fashioned fire 

Through the ranks! 


Then the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 
Powder-cloud ; 

And his broad sword was swinging, 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet-loud. 

Then the blue 
Bullets flew, 

And tbe trooper-jackets redden at the touch 
of the leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 

And rounder, rounder, rounder roarer! the iron 
six-pounder, 

Hurling death! 


THE WEAVER. 

BY MARY CLARK HUNTINGTON. 


B ESIDE the loom of life I stand 

And watch the busy shuttle go ; 
The threads I holds within iny hand 
Make up the filling; strand on strand 
They slip my fingers through, and so 
This web of mine fills out apace 
While I stand ever in my place. 

One time the woof is smooth and fine 
And colored with a sunny dye ; 

Again the threads so roughly twine 
And weave so darkly line on line, 


My heart misgives me, Then would I 
Fain lose this web — begin anew—- 
But that, alas ! I cannot do. 

Some day the web will all be done, 

The shuttle quiet in its place, 

From out my hold the threads be run ; 
And friends at setting of the sun. 

Will come to look upon my face, 

And say: “ Mistakes she made not few, 
Yet wove perchance as best she knew.” 


THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION. 


BY ORMSBY MacKNIGHT MITCHEL. 


This eminent Astronomer was born in Union County, Kentucky, in 1810 ; graduated at 
West Point in 1829 ; became distinguished as a mathematician and author of “ Planetary and 
Stellar Worlds,” and other scientific works; appointed brigadier-general in Union Army, 
1861; died of yellow fever at Beaufort, South Carolina, 1862. The following is a celebrated 
description of the universe. 


L IGHT traverses space at the rate of a mil¬ 
lion miles a minute, yet the light from 
the nearest star requires ten years to 
reach the earth, and Herschel’s telescope 
revealed stars two thousand three hundred 
times further distant. The great telescope of 
Lord Ross pursued these creations of God still 
deeper into space, and, having resolved the 
nebula? of the Milky Way into stars, discov¬ 
ered other systems of stars—beautiful diamond 
points, glittering through the black darkness 


beyond. When he beheld this amazing abyss 
— when he saw these systems scattered pro¬ 
fusely throughout space—when he reflected 
upon their immense distance, their enormous 
magnitude, and the countless millions of 
worlds that belonged to them—it seemed to 
him as though the wild dream of the German 
poet was more than realized. 

“ God called man in dreams into the vesti¬ 
bule of heaven, saying, * come up hither, and 
I will show thee the glory of my house.’ And 








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457 


to his angels who stood about his throne, he 
said, ‘ take him, strip him of his robes of flesh; 
cleanse his affections; put a new breath into 
his nostril; but touch not his human heart— 
the heart that fears, and hopes, and trembles.’ 
A moment, and it was done, aud the man 
stood ready for his unknown voyage. Under 
the guidance of a mighty angel, with sounds 
of flying pinions, they sped away from the 
battlements of heaven. Some time, on the 
mighty angel’s wings, they fled through 
Saharas of darknesses, wilderness of death. 

“At length, from a distance not counted, 
save in the arithmetic of heaven, light beamed 
upon them—a sleepy flame, as seen through a 
hazy cloud. They sped on, in their terrible 
speed, to meet the light; the light with lesser 


speed came to meet them. In a moment, the 
blazing of suns around them—a moment, the 
wheeling of planets; then came loug eterni¬ 
ties of twilight; then again, on the right hand 
and the left, appeared more constellations. 
At last, the man sunk down, crying, ‘Angel, I 
can go no further, let me lie down, in the 
grave, and hide myself from the infinitude of 
the universe, for end there is none.’ ‘ Eud is 
there none?’ demanded the angel. And, 
from the glittering stars that shone around, 
there came a choral shout, ‘ end there is none!’ 
‘End is there none?’ demanded the angel, 
again, ‘ and it is this that awes thy soul ? I 
answer, end there is none to the universe of 
God ! Lo, also, there is no beginning ! ’ ” 


NEVER TROUBLE TROUBLE. 


M Y good man is a clever man, 

Which no one will gainsay ; 

He lies awake to plot and plan 
’Gainst lions in the way, 

While I, without a thought of ill, 
Sleep sound enough for three ; 
For I never trouble trouble till 
Trouble troubles me. 

A holiday we never fix 
But he is sure ’twill rain, 

And when the sky is clear at six 
He knows it won’t remain. 

He’s always prophesying ill, 

To which I won’t agree, 

For I never trouble trouble till 
Trouble troubles me. 


The wheat will never show a top— 
But soon how green the field! 

We will not harvest half a crop— 
Yet have a famous yield ! 

It will not sell, it never will! 

But I will wait and see, 

For I never trouble trouble till 
Trouble troubles me. 

He has a sort of second sight, 

And when the fit is strong, 

He sees beyond the good and right 
The evil and the wrong, 

Heaven’s cup of joy he’ll surely spill 
Unless I with him be, 

For I never trouble trouble till 
Trouble troubles me. 


THE OLD WIFE. 


B Y the bed the old man, waiting, sat in 
vigil sad and tender, 

Where his aged wife lay dying ; and 
the twilight shadows brown 
Slowly from the wall and window chased the 
sunset’s golden splendor 
Going down. 

“ Is it night? ” she whispered, waking (for her 
spirit seemed to hover, 


Lost between the next world’s sunrise and the 
bedtime cares of this), 

And the old man, weak and tearful, trembling 
as he bent above her, 

Answered: “ Yes.” 

“ Are the children in ? ” she asked him. Could 
he tell her ? All the treasures 

Of their household lay in silence many years 
beneath the snow; 







458 


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But her heart was with them living, back 
among her toils and pleasures 
Long ago. 

And again she called at dew-fall, in the sweet 
old summer weather, 

“ Where is little Charlie, father? Frank and 
Robert—have they come ? ” 

“ They are safe,” the old man faltered; “ all 
the children are together— 

Safe at home.” 

Then he murmured gentle soothing, but his 
grief grew stronger and stronger, 

Till it choked and stilled him as he held and 
kissed her wrinkled hand, 

For her soul, far out of hearing, could his 
fondest words no longer 
Understand. 

Still the pale lips stammered questions, lulla¬ 
bies and broken verses, 

Nursery prattle—all the language of a mother’s 
loving heeds, 


While the midnight found the mourner, left to 
sorrow’s bitter mercies, 

Wrapped in weeds. 

There was stillness on the pillow—and the old 
man listened lonely— 

i Till they led him from the chamber, with the 
burden on his breast, 

For the wife of seventy years, his manhood’s 
early love and only, 

Lay at rest. 

“ Fare-you-well,” he sobbed, “ Sarah ; you will 
meet the babes before me ; 

’Tis a little while, for neither can the parting 
long abide, 

Aaid you’ll ceme and call me soon, I know— 
and Heaven will restore me 
To your side.” 

It was even so. The spring-time in the steps 

Scarcely shed its orchard blossoms ere the old 
mau closed his eyes, 

And they buried him by Sarah—and they had 
their “ diamond wedding ” 

In the skies. 


WHEN I WENT FISHING WITH DAD. 

BY MARY E. VANDYNE. 


W HEN I was a boy — I’m an old man now; 
Look at the lines across my brow ; 
Old Time has furrowed them there. 
My back is bent and my eyes are dim; 
He has placed his finger on every limb, 

And pulled out most of my hair. 

But if life has reached December, 

I’m not too old to remember 
When I went fishing with dad. 

We would each of us shoulder his part of the 
load, 

An d joyfully start along the road — 

But dad’s was the heaviest share. 

Out of the village about a mile, 

Over a meadow, across a stile, 

And then we were almost there. 

Dear old brook, I can see it still, 

The mossy bank and the old gray mill, 
Where I went fishing with dad. 


We would wander about for a little space 
To find the cosiest, shadiest place, 

Before we went to work. 

Then dad would arrange his rod and line, 
And tell me just how to manage mine 
When the fish began to jerk. 

If I only could feel as I used to then! 

If the days could only come back again, 
When I went fishing with dad. 

We armed our hooks with the wriggling bait, 
Then seated ourselves on the bank to wait 
And see if the fish would bite. 

Sometimes they would only take a look, 

As if they thought there might be a hook, 
But couldn’t be certain quite. 

There was one old perch that I used to 
think 

Would always look at the line and wink. 
When I went fishing with dad. 






FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


459 


And so we fished till the sun was high, 

And the morning hours were all gone by, 
And the village clock struck one. 

“ I am hungry, Jim,” then dad would say ; 

“ Let’s give the fishes a chance to play 
Until our lunch is done.” 

Oh, nothing has ever tasted so sweet 
As the big sandwiches I used to eat 
When I went fishing with dad. 

Then dad and I would lay on the grass 
And wait for the heat of the day to pass : 

How happy I used to feel! 

And what wonderful stories he would tell 
To the eager boy that he loved so well. 

After our mid-day meal! 

And how I would nestle close to his side 
To hear of the world so big and wide 
When I went fishing with dad. 

For I eagerly listened to every word ; 

And then among men of whom I heard 
How I longed to play a part! 

What wonderful dreams of the future came, 
What visions of wealth and an honored name, 
To fill my boyish heart! 

There is no dream like the old dream, 
There is no stream like the old stream 
Where I went fishing with dad. 

Then back again to our sport we’d go, 

And fish till the sunset’s crimson glow 
Lit up the dying day; 

Then dad would call to me, “ Jim, we’ll 
stop; 

The basket is full to the very top; 

It’s time we were on our way.” 

There are no ways like the old ways, 
There are no days like the old days 
When I went fishing with dad. 


Then we took our way through the meadow- 
land, 

And I clung so tight to his wrinkled hand. 

As happy as I could be. 

And when the old house came in sight, 

The smile on his old face grew so bright 
As he looked down at me. 

And no one smiles as he used to smile; 
And, oh, it seems such a long, long while 
Since I went fishing with dad. 

It is ’way, ’way back in the weary years 
That with aching heart and falling tears 
I watched dad go away. 

His aged head lay on my breast 
When the angels called him home to rest— 
He was too old to stay. 

And I dug a grave ’neath the very sod 
That my boyish feet so often trod 
When I went fishing with dad. 

The world has given me wealth and fame, 
Fulfilled my dreams of an honored name, 

And now I am weak and old; 

The land is mine wherever I look; 

I can catch my fish with a silver hook ; 

But my days are almost told 
Uncheered by the love of child or wife, 
I would spend the end of my lonely life 
Where I went fishing with dad. 

My limbs are Aveary, my eyes are dim ; 

I shall tell them to lay me close by him, 
Whenever I come to die; 

And side by side, it will be my wish, 

That there by the stream where they used to 
They will let the old men lie. [fish, 

Close by him I would like to be, 

Buried beneath the old oak-tree, 

Where I sat and fished with dad. 


THE MOSQUITO HUNT. 

T he following parody is a good specimen of humor, the style of verse being suggested 
by that well-known lyric, “ The Burial of Sir John Moore,” the first line of which is, “ Not 
a drum was heard, not a funeral note.” 


N OT a sound was heard but a terrible hum 
As around the chamber we hurried, 
In search of the mosquito whose trumpet 
and drum 

Our delectable slumber had worried. 


We sought it darkly at dead of night, 

Our coverlet carefully turning, 

By the struggling moonbeam’s mist y light. 
And our candle dimly burning. 






FAVORITE POEMS 


AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


460 

No useless garment confined our breast, 

But in simple night-dress and slippers, 

We wandered about like spirits distressed, 

Or the sails of piratical skippers. 

Short and few were the words we let fall, 

Lest the sound should disturb the mosquito, 
But we steadfastly gazed on the white-washed 
wall, 

And thought how we had been bit oh! 


But half an hour seemed to elapse 

Ere we met with the wretch that had bit us, 
And raising our boot gave some terrible 
slaps, 

And gave the mosquito quietus. 

Quickly and gladly we turned from the dead, 
And left him all smashed and gory ; 

We blew out the candle and popped into bed. 
Determined to tell you the story. 


THE PESSIMISTIC PHILOSOPHER. 


I N building up “natur” lie thought the 
Creator 

Had blundered unspeakably queer, 
And he said he and Darwin and Billy 
McVarren 

Could prove the whole thing out of gear. 
He said the whole pattern from Neptune to 
Saturn 

Was cut by a bungling design, 

And that no particular was plumb perpen¬ 
dicular, 

And exact every time to the line. 

He said that no critic, with brain analytic, 
Could tolerate things that he saw. 


He said he would suffer if any old duffer 

Couldn’t pick out a blemish or flaw. 

Any man with a cranium as big’s a ger¬ 
anium 

Could see the whole thing was a botch, 

I See where “ natur ” had blundered in joints 
by the hundred 

In the space of five ticks of his watch. 

And so day and night he advised the Al¬ 
mighty 

With advice he believed of great worth, 

And his wife took in sewing to keep life a- 
going 

While he superintended the earth. 


A LOVER WITHOUT ARMS. 

BY HENRY DAVENPORT. 


A CAPTAIN went to Gettysburg 
And plunged into the fray, 

And while he led his brave command 
Both arms were shot away. 

This Captain’s name was Peter Field, 

And he was tall and stout; 

But when he found himself disarmed 
His courage “ petered out.” 

Now Peter, at a country fair, 

A fair young maid had met; 

While in the hospital he sat, 

His heart on her was set. 

Poor Peter mourned his sorry loss, 

Which nothing could replace ; 


He wanted such a brace of arms, 

His maiden to embrace. 

While Peter Field wos sorely maimed, 
And far down in the dumps, 

She took occasion to declare 

She’d take him with his stumps. 

This manly offer made him weep. 

He was almost unmanned; 

He told her she could have his heart, 
But couldn’t have his hand. 

His hand this maiden could not get, 
For he was incomplete; 

And so this feat she did perform, 

She took his heart and feet. 












FAVORITE POEMS AND PROSE SELECTIONS. 


461 


Some lovers say, “ Come to my arms! ” 
And quick the maiden jumps ; 

But Peter changed the phrase and said, 
“ Come, darling, to my stumps! ” 

Long time did Peter long to wed, 

His true and faithful mate ; 

The lovers felt a weight of woe, 

Because compelled to wait. 

The Captain had no stocks or bonds, 
No horses and no lands; 

And, without arms, he could not take 
A wife upon his hands. 


For keeping books he had a taste, 

Yet had to shun the pen; 

But if a pension could be had, 

He would get married then. 

The pension came, the wedding too, 

His fortunes to retrieve ; 

“ Please join your hands,” the parson said, 
But Peter joined his sleeve. 

Now Peter’s joy is quite complete, 

And peaceful is his life : 

While marriage was a happy stroke, 

He never strikes his wife. 


LAKE ERIE. 

BY EPHRAIM PEABODY. 

Born at Wilton, New Hampshire, in 1807 ; died in 1856. 


T HESE lovely shores! how lone and still 
A hundred years ago, 

The unbroken forest stood above, 

The waters dashed below: 

The waters of a lonely sea, 

Where never sail was furled, 
Embosomed in a wilderness, 

Which was itself a world. 

A hundred years! go back ; and lo! 

Where, closing in the view, 

Just out the shore, with rapid oar 
Darts round a frail canoe. 

’Tis a white voyager, and see, 

His prow is westward set 
O’er the calm wave: hail to thy bold, 
World-seeking bark, Marquette! 


The lonely bird, that picks his food 
Where rise the waves, and sink, 

At their strange coming, with shrill scream, 
Starts from the sandy brink ; 

The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky, 
Floats o’er on level wing, 

And the savage from his covert looks, 
With arrow on the string. 

A hundred years are past and gone, 

And all the rocky coast 
Is turreted with shining towns, 

An empire’s noble boast. 

And the old wilderness is changed 
To cultured vale and hill; 

And the circuit of its mountains 
An empire’s numbers fill. 






Celebrated English Authors 

INCLUDING 

Tennyson ; Gladstone ; Dickens; Thackeray; Byron; Burns ; 
Shelley; Goldsmith ; Macaulay; Milton ; Shakespeare ; 

Scott; Browning; Hood ; Hemans ; Kipling; 

George Eliot, and many others, 

TOGETHER WITH THEIR 

WORLD-RENOWNED PRODUCTIONS. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Favorite English Poet. 


OR many years Lord Tennyson was without a living peer as a 
poet. It has been even said that no writer since the days of 
Shakespeare has exhibited such wonderful power of clothing 
poetic thought in captivating language. His poems are noth¬ 
ing less than creations, many of them sublime beyond com¬ 
parison, and exhibiting the severest culture and most pains¬ 
taking effort. They are the products of the most brilliant genius. 

Tennyson was born in 1809 and was educated at Trinity College, 
Cambridge, where, in 1829, obtained a prize medal for a poem in blank 
verse on “ Timbuctoo.” Soon after he published “ The Lady of Shalott,” 
“ The May Queen,” “ The Lotus-Eaters,” “ A Dream of Fair Women,” 
etc., etc. In 1849 he issued anonymously “ In Memoriam,” which many 
persons consider the finest of all his productions. Many of its remark¬ 
able couplets and stanzas have passed into the common speech of our 
time, and have become favorites of thoughtful persons and even of those 
religiously inclined. 

Tennyson’s fame grew through all his long life, and it is noteworthy 
that each new production appeared to increase his reputation and give 

462 






ALFRED TENNYSON. 


463 


him a stronger hold upon the affections of the reading public. More 
abrupt, more vigorous in thought, more rugged and massive as a poet 
than Longfellow, his versification was yet easy and graceful, although 
inferior in this respect to that of our own great poet, just mentioned, 
whose name is a household word everywhere. Tennyson died October 
6th, 1892. 

The eminent critic, Mr. R. H. Hutton, speaks as follows of England’s 
late renowned laureate: 

“ Lord Alfred Tennyson has been called the Shakespeare of his time. 
It is somewhat invidious to compare him with any poet who ever lived. 
He is a mountain summit by himself, standing alone, majestic and grand, 
yet anything but cold and forbidding. He is superior in intellectual 
grasp, original expression, and subtile emotion. 

u Mr. Tennyson was an artist before he was a poet. I suppose it is 
in some respects this lavish native strength which has given him his 
delight in great variety and richness of materials, showing a tropical 
luxuriance of natural gifts. What his poetical faculty delights in most 
are rich landscapes, in which either nature or man has accumulated a 
lavish variety of effects. It is in the scenery of the mill, the garden, 
the chase, the rich pastures, the harvest fields, the palace pleasure- 
grounds, fair parks and domains, glowing with sylvan beauty, that Mr. 
Tennyson most delights. 

“ He has a strong fascination for old legends, as well as for those 
common tales of achievement and adventure which delight the popular 
heart. There is always the movement of real life in his poems, a kind 
of stately tread and marching forward, which seizes the reader as the 
mighty tide lays hold of the floating skiff and carries it away on its 
heaving bosom. His pen-pictures, it may be said, succeed each other too 
rapidly, yet for the most part his style ripples along with perfect ease 
and grace. 

“ Not exactly cypress, but a wreath of weeping willow, should 
encircle his name. He is enamored with ideal beauty and purity of soul, 
and he sings the praises of holy and exalted friendship more than the 
warmer passion of love. He may be characterized as an elevated philos¬ 
opher with a poet’s expression, which a delicate perception of the beauti¬ 
ful and true has given him. 

“ His harp is not strung with strings whose wild, loud notes shall 
first awaken, and then petrify the snoring world, but with silken, silvery, 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


464 

gossamer chords, whose fairy melody is heard only by the delicate 
spiritual ear. 

“ Yet keeps he perhaps too close to the shores of time, and dares not, 
or will not, sail the mighty oceans of mind, and bring us, like golden 
fruit, from beyond their distant shores sublime and inspiring ideas of 
futurity. He keeps his wings too closely furled, when we consider his 
poetical powers.” 


RING OUT, WILD BELLS. 


R ING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new— 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that sads the mind, 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
With sweeter manners, purer laws. 


Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 

The faithless coldness of the times; 

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
The civic slander aud the spite: 

Riug in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land— 
Riug in the Christ that is to be. 


COME INTO THE 

OME into the garden, Maud — 

For the black bat, night, has flown ! 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone; 

And the woodbiue spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the suu she loves, 

To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 
The flute, violin, bassoon : 


GARDEN, MAUD. 

All night has the casement jessamine stirred 
To the dancers dancing in tune— 

Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, “ There is but one 
With whom she has heart to be gay. 

When will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dance and play.” 

Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day; 

Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, “The brief ni<*ht goes 
In babble and revel and wine; 








ALFRED TENNYSON. 


465 


O young lord-lover, what sighs are those 
For one that will never be thine! 

But mine, but mine,” so I sware to the rose, 

“ Forever and ever mine!” 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 
As the music clashed in the hall; 

And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow, and on to the 
wood. 

Our wood, that is dearer than all; 

From the meadow your walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs, 

He sets the jewel print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes, 

To the woody hollows in which we meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 

But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 


The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queeu-rose of the rose-bud garden of girls, 
Come hither! the dances are done; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
To the flowers and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ! 

And the red rose cries, “She is near, she is 
near;” 

And the white rose weeps, “ She is late ; ” 
The larkspur listens, “ I hear, I hear; ” 

And the lily whispers, “ I wait.” 

She is coming, my own, my sweet! 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 

My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthly bed ; 

My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 

Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossoms in purple and red. 


FLOW DOWN, COLD RIVULET. 


F LOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute-wave deliver: 

No more by thee my steps shall be. 
Forever and forever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet, then a river; 

Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 


But here will sigh thine alder-tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver: 
But not by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 


THE LAND OF LANDS. 


Y OU ask me why though ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 
And languish for the purple seas. 

It is the land that freemen till, 

The sober-suited Freedom chose; 

* 30 


The land where, girt with friends or foes, 
A man may speak the thing he will: 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 

Where freedom broadens slowly down, 
From precedent to precedent: 







466 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


Where faction seldom gathers head ; 

But, by degrees to fullness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive thought 
Hath time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 
And individual freedom mute; 


Though power should make, from land to land, 
The name of Britain trebly great— 
Though every channel of the state 
Should almost choke with golden sand— 

Yet waft from me the harbor-mouth, 

Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 

And I will see, before I die, 

The palms and temples of the South. 


LOCKSLEY HALL. 


C OMRADES, leave me here a little, while 
as yet ’tis early morn— 

Leave me here, and when you want 
me, sound upon the bugle horn. 

’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the 
curlews call, 

Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over 
Locksley Hall: 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks 
the sandy tracts, 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into 
cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, e’re 
I went to rest 

Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to 
the west. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through 
the mellow shade, 

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a 
silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing 
a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and the long 
result of time; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful 
land reposed. 

When I clung to all the present for the promise 
that it closed; 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye 
could see— 

Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder 
that would be. 


In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 
robin’s breast; 

In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 
another crest; 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the 
burnished dove; 

In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns 
to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than 
should be for one so young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute 
observance hung. 

And I said, “ My cousin Amy, speak, and 
speak the truth to me ; 

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being 
sets to thee.” 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color 
and a light, 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the 
northern night. 

And she turned—her bosom shaken with a 
sudden storm of sighs ; 

All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of 
hazel eyes— 

Saying, “ I have hid my feelings, fearing they 
should do me wrong; ’ ’ 

Saying, Dost thou love me, cousin ? ” weep¬ 
ing, “ I have loved thee long.” 

Love took up the glass of time, and turned it 
in his glowing hands : 

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in 
golden sands. 





ALFRED TENNYSON. 


467 


Love took up the harp of life, and smote on 
all the chords with might; 

Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed 
in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear 
the copses ring, 

And her whisper thronged my pulses with the 
fulness of the spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch 
the stately ships, 

And our spirits rushed together at the touching 
of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! 0 my Amy, 

mine no more! 

0 the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, 
barren shore! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all 
songs have sung— 

Puppet to a father’s threat, and servile to a 
shrewish tongue! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ?—having known 
me ; to decline 

On a range of lower feelings and a narrower 
heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level 
day by day, 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to 
sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated 
with a clown, 

And-the grossness of his nature will have 
weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have 
spent its novel force, 

Something better than his dog, a little dearer 
than his horse. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy—think not 
they are glazed with wine, 

Go to him ; it is thy duty—kiss him ; take his 
hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is 
overwrought— 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him j 
with thy lighter thought. 


He will answer to the purpose, easy thing to 
understand— 

Better thou wert dead before me, though I 
slew thee with my hand. 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 
heart’s disgrace, 

Rolled in another’s arms, and silent in a last 
embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against 
the strength of youth ! 

Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the 
living truth! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that e’er from hon¬ 
est nature’s rule! 

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened 
forehead of the fool! 

Well—’tis w T ell that I should bluster !—Hadst 
thou less unworthy proved, 

Would to God—for I had loved thee more 
than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which 
bears but bitter fruit ? 

I will pluck it from my bosom, though my 
heart be at the root. 

Never! though my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 

As the many-wintered crow that leads the 
clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the records 
of the mind ? 

Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I 
knew her, kind? 

I remember one that perished ; sweetly did 
she speak and move; 

Such a one do I remember, whom to look at 
was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for 
the love she bore ? 

No—she never loved me truly ; love is love 
for evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorned of devils! this is 
truth the poet sings, 

That a sorrow’s crowm of sorrow is remember¬ 
ing happier things. 




408 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy 
heart be put to proof, 

In the dead, uuhappy night, and when the rain 
is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams ; and thou art 
staring at the wall, 

Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the 
shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing 
to his drunken sleep, 

To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears 
that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the “ Never, never,” whispered 
by the phantom years, 

And a song from out the distance in the ring¬ 
ing of thine ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient 
kindness on thy pain. 

Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee 
to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; fora ten¬ 
der voice will cry. 

’Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy 
trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest 
rival brings thee rest— 

Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from 
the mother’s breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dear¬ 
ness not his due. 

Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy 
of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy 
petty part, 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching 
down a daughter’s heart. 

“ They were dangerous guides the feelings— 
she herself ivas not exempt— 

Truly, she herself had suffered ”—Perish in 
thy self-contempt! 

Overlive it—lower yet—be happy ! wherefore 
should I care? 

I myself must mix with action, lest I wither 
by despair. 


What is that which I should turn to, lighting 
upon days like these ? 

Every door is barred with gold, and opens but 
to golden keys. 

Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the 
markets overflow. 

I have but an angry fancy : what is that 
which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the 
foeman’s ground, 

When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the 
winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt 
that honor feels, 

And the nations do but murmur, snarling at 
each other’s heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that 
earlier page. 

Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou won¬ 
drous mother-age! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt 
before the strife, 

When I heard my days before me, and the 
tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the 
coming years would yield, 

Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves 
his father’s field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near 
and nearer drawn, 

Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like 
a dreary dawn; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone 
before him then, 

Underneath the light he looks at, in among 
the throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 
reaping something new ; 

That which they have done but earnest of the 
things that they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye 
could see, 

Saw the vision of the world, and all the won¬ 
der that would be; 





ALFRED TENNYSON. 


469 


Saw tbe heavens fill with commerce, argosies 
of magic sails, 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down 
with costly bales; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and 
there rained a ghastly dew 

From the nations’ airy navies grappling in the 
central blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the 
south-wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples plunging 
through the thunder-storm; 

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, aud the 
battle-flags were furled 

In the parliament of man, the federation of 
the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a 
fretful realm in awe, 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in 
universal law. 

So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping 
through me left me dry, 

Left me with the palsied heart, and left me 
with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here 
are out of joint. 

Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on 
from point to point: 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion 
creeping nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a 
slowly dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increas¬ 
ing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widened with 
the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of 
his youthful joys, 

Though the deep heart of existence beat for¬ 
ever like a boy’s! 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and I 
linger on the shore, 

And the individual withers, and the world is 
more and more. 


Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 
bears a laden breast, 

Full of sad experience moving toward the 
stillness of his rest. 

Hark! my merry comrades call me, soundiug 
on the bugle horn— 

They to whom my foolish passion were a tar¬ 
get for their scorn; 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 
mouldered string? 

I am shamed through all my nature to have 
loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! wo¬ 
man’s pleasure, woman’s pain— 

Nature made them blinder motions bounded 
in a shallower brain ; 

Woman is the lesser man, aud all thy pas¬ 
sions, matched with mine, 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, aud as water 
unto wine— 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing 
Ah, for some retreat 

Deep in yonder shining orient, where my life 
began to beat! 

Where in wild Maliratta-battle fell my father, 
evil-starred; 

I was left a trampled orphan, aud a selfish 
uncle’s ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit—there to wander 
far away, 

On from island unto island at the gateways of 
the day— 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons 
and happy skies, 

Breadths of tropic shade aud palms in cluster, 
knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an 
European flag— 

Slides the bird o’er lustrous woodland, droops 
the trailer from the crag— 

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the 
heavy-fruited tree— 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 
spheres of sea. 




170 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


There, methinks, would be enjoyment more 
than in this march of mind — 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall 
have scope and breathing-space ; 

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear 
my dusky race. 

lion-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, 
and they shall run, 

Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl 
their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot’s call, and leap the 
rainbows of the brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over misera¬ 
ble books.— 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy, but I know 
my words are wild, 

But I count the gray barbarian lower than 
the Christian child. 

1 to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 
glorious gains, 

Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast 
with lower pains! 

Mated with a squalid savage—what to me 
were sun or clime ? 

I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files 
of time— 

I, that rather held it better men should perish 
oue by one, 


Than that earth should stand at gaze like 
Joshua’s moon in Ajalon! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, 
forward let us range; 

Let the great world spin forever down the 
ringing grooves of change. 

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep 
into the younger day : 

Better fitly years of Europe than a cycle of 
Cathay. 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me 
as when life begun— 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the 
lightnings, weigh the Sun ;— 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath 
not set; 

Ancient founts of inspiration well through all 
my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 
Locksley Hall! 

Now for me the woods may wither, now for 
me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening 
over heath and holt, 

Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast 
a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or 
hail, or fire or snow; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, 
aud I go. 


SONG OF THE BROOK. 


I COME from haunts of coot aud hern ; 
I make a sudden sally, 

Aud sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges; 

By twenty thorps, a little town. 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 
To join the brimming river; 


For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles; 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 






ALFRED TENNYSON. 


471 


I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blosssom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling; 

And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me, as I travel, 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel; 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 


I steal by lawns and grassy plots; 

I slide by hazel covers ; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 


THE SPLENDOR FALLS. 


T HE splendor falls on castle walls, 

And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow ; set the wild echoes flying ; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ; 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 


Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O love! they die on yon rich sky ; 

They faint on hill, or field, or river; 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 

Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes 
flying; 

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 


THE FINAL GOAL. 


O YET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 

To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 

That not a moth with vain desire 


Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another’s gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last—far off—at last, to all, 
And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night: 

An infant crying for the light: 
And with no language but a cry. 







472 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER. 


I T is the miller’s daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 
That trembles at her ear : 

For, hid in ringlets day and night, 

I’d touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty, dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me 


In sorrow and in rest: 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I’d clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 

And all day long to fall and rise 
Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs : 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasped at night. 


BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 


B REAK, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O sea! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman’s boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 


And the stately ships go on, 

To the haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanished hand ; 
And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea } 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 


CROSSING THE BAR. 

The following was the last poem of the celebrated author. 


S UNSET and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ; 

And may there be no moaning of the bar 
When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 

When that which drew from out the boundless 
deep 

Turns again home. 


It was sung at his funeral. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark; 

And may there be no sadness of farewell 
When I embark; 

For, though from out our bourne of time and 
place, 

The flood may bear me far, 

I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have crossed the bar. 








Robert Burns. 

Scotland’s Sweetest Bard 


UDGED by the hold an author has upon the public, including 
both the educated and refined and persons of ordinary attain* 
ments, Burns has few, if any, superiors. His verse, which is 
purely Scottish, flavored with the scenery of his native land 
and with his own characteristics, mental, moral and social, is 
so human, so simple, so frank and captivating that it touches 
the popular heart more profoundly perhaps than the lyrics of any other 
poet. He wrote himself into his songs and it is impossible to separate 
the one from the other. His poems have a peculiar charm. It is not the 
grand march of a Byron’s genius, nor the profound intellectual grasp of 
Tennyson, nor the finished beauty of Longfellow, but in the delightful 
expression of sentiments and feelings common to all readers, Burns is 
without a rival. 

The greatest lyric poet Scotland has produced was born at Alloway, 
near Ayr, January 25, 1759, and died at Dumfries, July 21, 1796. Burns 
was of humble descent, his ancestors for generations being Scottish 
farmers, and he remained to the end the bard of the common people. His 
education was meagre and, in conjunction with his brother Gilbert, he, in 
1783, rented a farm at Mossgiel and began life as a farmer. His ventures, 
however, like those of his father, were unfortunate, and this, in part, led 
him to publish his poems. Although an uncultivated countryman, with 
the meagre education that nearly always accompanies abject poverty, he 
had brain and culture enough to fairly estimate his own work. He did 
not need to go to school to discover that he was a poet. 

His first volume of poems, some of which were written in the field, 
was published at Kilmarnock in 1786, on which occasion he changed the 
family name from Burness to Burns. The volume brought him fame, 
and in the same year he went to Edinburgh, where he became something 
of a literary lion. In 1787, a second edition of his poems was published 
by Creech in Edinburgh. 

The following year he married Jane Armour and took a farm at Ellis- 

473 



474 


ROBERT BURNS. 


land. Two years later lie removed to Dumfries, where he served as 
exciseman and devoted himself to literature. Much of his homely verse 
has never been surpassed, and no poet is more sure of lasting fame. 
Many statues, in all parts of the world, attest the veneration accorded him. 

Burns more than reflected the vices common to his countrymen in his 
time. In many ways his life was reprehensible, meriting only reproach. 
He had little of the traditional Scotch reverence for established social and 
religious usages. His convivial habits were well known. Better to 
think only of the true-hearted man, the poet of the people, the genius 
that has given him fame in all the world. 


MY HEART’S IN 

M Y heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is 
not here; the deer; 

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe 
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 
North, 

The birth-place of valor, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, whereve r I rove, 

The hills and the Highlands forever I love. 


THE RIGHLANDS. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with 
snow; 

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 
floods. here; 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not 
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, 
Chasing the wild deer, and foiling the roe, 

My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. 


TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 


T HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, 
That lov’st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 

Oh, Mary! dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of blissful reBt? 

See’st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget? 

Can I forget the hallowed grove 
Where by the winding Ayr we met 
To live one day of parting love ? 

Eternity will not efface 
Those records dear of transports past! 

Thy image at our last embrace— 

Ah ! little thought we ’twas our last! 


Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprung wanton to be pressed, 

The birds sung love on every spray, 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care; 

Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary! dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 

See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 






ROBERT BURNS. 


475 


JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 


J OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonny brow was brent; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, my jo. 


John Anderson, my jo, John, 
We clamb the hill thegither; 
And monie a canty day, John, 
We’ve had wi’ ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we’ll go : 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson, my jo. 


THE CHEVALIER’S LAMENT. 

These admirable stanzas are supposed to be spoken by the young Prince Charles Edward, 
when wandering in the Highlands of Scotland after his fatal defeat at Culloden. 


T HE small birds rejoice in the green leaves 
returning, 

The murmuring streamlet winds clear 
through the vale; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
morning, 

And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the 
green dale: 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 
fair, 

While the lingering moments are numbered 
by care ? 

No flowers gaily springing, no birds sweetly 
singing, 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 


The deed that I dared, could it merit their 
malice, 

A king or a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are 
these valleys, 

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 
find none. 

But ’tis not my sufferings thus wretched, for¬ 
lorn ; 

My brave gallant friends, ’tis your ruin I 
mourn: 

Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody 
trial, 

Alas! can I make you no sweeter return ? 


THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT. 


N OVEMBER chill blaws loud wi’ angry 
sugh ; [close ; 

The short’ning winter-day is near a 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 
The black’ning trains o’ craws to their 
repose; 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 


Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin stacher thro’, 
To meet their Dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ 
glee. 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 

His clane hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie’s 
smile, 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does all his weary carking cares beguile. 

An’ makes him quite forget his labor an’ his 
toil. 

Wi’ joy unfeign’d brothers and sisters meet, 
An’ each for other’s welfare kindly spiers: 

The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 







476 


ROBERT BURNS. 


The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years, 
Anticipation forward points the view. 

The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears, 
Gars auld claes look arnaist as weel’s the 
new; 

The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. 

Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command, 
The younkers a’ are warned to obey ; 

And mind their labors wi’ an eydent hand, 
And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play: 
“And, oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 
And mind you r duty, duly, morn and night! 
Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, 
Implore his counsel and assisting might: 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright! ” 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; 
Wi’ heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild 
worthless rake. 


Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth; he takes the mother’s 
eye; 

Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill’ taen ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. 

The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ 

joy, 

But, blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel be¬ 
have ; 

The woman, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae 
grave ; 

Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like 
the lave. 

O happy love! where love like this is found! 
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond com¬ 
pare ! 

I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this declare— 
“ If Heav’n a draught of heav’nly pleasure 
spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other’s arms breathe out the tender 
tale, 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev’ning gale! ” 


MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 


Gilbert Burns, the brother of the poel, says: “ He (Burns) used to remark to me that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. 
In casting about in bis mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, ‘ Man 
was Made to Mourn,’ was composed.” 


W HEN chill November’s surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 

One evening, as I wandered forth, 
Along the banks of Ayr, 

I spied a man, whose aged step 
Seemed weary, worn with care; 

His face was furrowed o’er with years, 
And hoary was his hair. 

“ Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ? 

Began the reverend sage; 

“ Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 
Or youthful pleasure’s rage ? 


Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 
Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
The miseries of man ! 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
Outspreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labor to support 
A haughty lordling’s pride— 

I’ve seen yon weary winter sun 
Twice forty times return ; 

And every time has added proof 
That man was made to mourn. 





ROBERT BURNS. 


477 


“ O man, while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time! 

Misspending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 

Alternate follies take the sway: 
Licentious passions burn; 

Which ten-fold force gives nature’s law, 
That man was made to mourn. 

“ Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood’s active might; 

Man then is useful to his kind 
Supported in his right; 

But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 

Then age and want, O ill-matched pair! 
Show man was made to mourn. 

“ A few seem favorites of fate, 

In pleasure’s lap carest; 

Yet think not all the rich and great 
Are likewise truly blest. 

But, oh, what crowds in every land 
Are wretched and forlorn ! 

Through weary life this lesson learn— 
That man was made to mourn. 

“ Many and sharp the numerous ills, 
Inwoven with our frame! 

More pointed still we make ourselves, 
Regret, remorse, and shame! 

And man, whose heaven-erected face 
The smiles of love adorn, 

Man’s inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 


“ Sec yonder poor, o’erlaborcd wight, 

So abject, mean and vile, 

Who begs a brother of the earth 
To give him leave to toil; 

And see his lordly fellow-worm 
The poor petition spurn, 

Unmindful, ’though a weeping wife 
And helpless offspring mourn. 

“ If I’m designed yon lordling’s slave— 

. By nature’s law designed— 

Why was an independent wish 
E’er planted in my mind? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty and scorn ? 

Or why has man the will and power 
To make his fellow mourn ? 

“ Yet let not this too much, my son, 
Disturb thy youthful breast: 

This partial view of humankind 
Is surely not the last! 

The poor, oppressed, yet honest man 
Had never, sure, been born, 

Had there not been some recompense 
To comfort those that mourn ! 

“ O death! the poor man’s dearest friend, 
The kindest and the best! 

Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
Are laid with thee at rest! 

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 
From pomp and pleasure torn ; 

But, oh, a blest relief to those 
That weary-laden mourn ! ” 


BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 


S COTS, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled ; 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 

Or to victorie! 

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour ; 
See the front o’ battle lower; 

See approach proud Edward’s power: 

Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 

Wha can fill a coward’s grave? 

Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee ! 


Wha for Scotland’s king and law, 
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’! 

Let him follow me! 

By oppression’s woes and pains! 

By your sons in servile chains! 

We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 

Tyrants fall in every foe! 

Liberty’s in every blow! 

Let us do, or die! 





478 


ROBERT BURNS. 


AFTON 

LOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy 
green braes; 

Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in 
thy praise; 

My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through 
the glen, 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 
den, 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming 
forbear; 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring 
hills, 

For marked with the courses of clear-winding 
rills! 

There daily I wander as noon rises high, 

My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my 
eye. 


WATER. 

How pleasant thy banks aud green valleys 
below 

Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 
blow! 

There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and 
me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it 
glides, 

And winds by the cot where my Mary 
resides; 

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 

As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy 
clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
braes ; 

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my 
lays; 

My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
dream. 


HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. 


O THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel’, 
Sends ane to heaven, an ten to hell, 
A’ fur Thy glory, 

And no for onie guid or ill 

They’ve done afore Thee! 

I bless and praise Thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands Thou has left in night, 
That I am here afore Thy sight, 

For gifts an’ grace, 

A burning an’ a shining light, 

To a’ this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 

That I should get such exaltation ? 

I wha deserve such just damnation, 

For broken laws, 

Five thousand years ’fore my creation, 
Through Adam’s cause. 

When frae my mither’s womb I fell, 

Thou might hae plunged me into hell, 

To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 


In burnin’ lake, 

Where damned devils roar and yell, 
Chained to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample, 

To show Thy grace is great and ample, 
I’m here a pillar in Thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 

A guide, a buckler, an example 
To a’ Thy flock. 

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink and swearers swear, 
And singing there, and dancing here, 

Wi’ great and sma’: 

For I am keepit by Thy fear, 

Free frae them a’. 

But yet, O Lord! confess I must, 

At times I’m fashed wi’ fleshly lust, 

An’ sometimes, too, wi’ wardly trust— 
Vile self gets in ; 

| But Thou remembers we are dust, 

1 Defiled in sin. 





ROBERT BURNS. 


479 


Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset Thy servant e’en and morn, 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 
’Cause he’s sae gifted; 

If sae, Thy hand maun e’en be borne, 
Until Thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 

For here Thou hast chosen a race; 

But God confound their stubborn face, 
And blast their name, 

Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace, 

An’ public shame. 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts, 

He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at cartes, 
Yet has sae monie takin’ arts, 


Wi’ great an’ sma’, 

Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts 
He steals awa’. 

An’ when we chastened him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 

As set the warld in a roar 

O’ laughin’ at us :— 

Curse Thou his basket and his store. 

Kail and potatoes. 

But Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine, 

That I for gear and grace may shine, 
Excelled by nane, 

An’ a’ the glory shall be Thine, 

Amen, Amen. 


HIGHLAND MARY. 


Y E banks and braes, and streams around 
The castle o’ Montgomery, 

Green be your woods, and fairyour flowers, 
Your waters never drumlie! 

There simmer first unfaulds her robes, 
And there she langest tarries! 

For there I took the last fareweel 
O’ my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 

The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o’er me and my dearie; 

For dear to me as light and life 
Was my sweet Highland Mary. 


Wi’ monie a vow, and locked embrace, 
Our parting was full and tender; 

And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder ; 

But, oh ! fell death’s untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower so early! 

Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay 
That wraps my Highland Mary! 

O pale, pale now those rosy lips 
I aft ha’e kissed sae fondly! 

And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
That dwelt on me sae kindly; 

And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that loved me dearly ; 

But still within my bosom’s core 
Shall live my Highland Mary. 






w illiam Ewart Gladstone. 

Eminent Statesman and Author. 


S»®ORE 



than any other ruler, whether of royalty or the people, 
Mr. Gladstone swayed the destinies of the British Empire. 
Laws were enacted, measures in Parliament were adopted and 
national policies were framed and executed either by his 
direct advocacy or by his permission. He possessed the 
power of commanding intellect, scholarship, oratory, and a 
firmness in conscientious conviction that could no more be shaken than 
the rock of Gibralter. He was manifestly born to be a leader. 

Mr. Gladstone may be called the most eminent English statesman, 
orator, and author of the last century. He was born in Liverpool in 
December, 1809, and graduated at Oxford in 1831, having gained the 
highest distinction in classics and mathematics. He was elected to 
Parliament by the Conservatives in 1832, and appointed a lord of the 
treasury by Sir Robert Peel in December, 1834. 

From this time on Mr. Gladstone advanced steadily from one position 
to another until he was chosen to the very responsible office of Chancellor 
of the Exchequer in the Cabinet of Lord Palmerston. From being a 
Conservative Mr. Gladstone gradually adopted Liberal opinions and 
principles until in 1868 he became Prime Minister. His speeches and 
orations in Parliament and out were the wonder and admiration of even 
his opponents. He contemplated great measures for the welfare of his 
country, including the extension of the suffrage, the formation of public 
schools and the disestablishment of the Irish Church. 

Mr. Gladstone was preeminently a scholar, and through all his long 
and distinguished career he found time to indulge in authorship, some of 
his published works showing the marked ability which characterized him 
as a statesman and orator. He passed into a ripe old age laden with 
honors, and died May 16, 1898. It is enough to say that Mr. Gladstone 
must be named in that bright galaxy of distinguished men which includes 
our own Webster and Clay, while in some respects he is easily superior 
to every other statesman and orator the century produced. 

480 





WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 


481 


Confessedly the first of parliamentary orators, and the greatest 
preponderating force in the politics of our time, his strong personality 
impressed itself upon all ranks and classes of the people. His public 
career covered more than half a centur}^ of most momentous years in the 
annals of Great Britain. There have been periods in English history 
which have been marked by greater social upheavals and more violent 
revolutions; there have been even national convulsions resulting some¬ 
times in a change of dynasty; but there has been no period which can 
compare with the last fifty years of the nineteenth century for the vast 
number of reforms which were peaceably effected — reforms ecclesiastical, 
social, colonial, financial, and political. And with all these vast and pro¬ 
gressive changes, the name of William Ewart Gladstone was more or 
less inextricably interwoven. 

Edward Arnold pays the following glowing tribute to Mr. Gladstone : 


Rest mighty Brain ! that seethed with plan and scheme; 
Triumph or failure shall not stir again 

Its subtle coils. Softer than summer dream 
Falls on thy brow this Peace without a pain. 

Sleep, Body ! which was tenement and town 
To such a soul as saw God face to face, 

Through earthly windows. Lay thy dust adown 
With dust which makes the glory of our race. 

Repose, high, faithful heart! which beat for Truth 
Righteousness, Liberty and Worthy Ends, 

By whatsoever means. See, now ! the ruth 

Of thy rich life makes those that fought thee friends! 

Slumber, grey Statesman! lulled majestical 

By anthems pealing England’s sad “ good-hye; ” 

The great Dead welcome thee; the living shall 
Live nobler for thy strong example. Die 

That thou may’st live, indeed ; here, in full heart 
Of that fair Land whereto thy toils were given; 

And there, as trust is, from all toils apart, 

In sweet societies and sounds of Heaven. 


REPLY TO DISRAELI ON THE REFORM BILL. 


T HE right hon. gentleman, secure in the 
recollection of his own consistency has 
taunted me with the errors of my boyhood. 
When he addressed the hon. member for 
Westminster, he showed his magnanimity by 
declaring that he would not take the philoso- 
31 


pher to task for what he wrote twenty-five 
years ago ; but when he caught one who, thirty- 
six years ago, just emerged from boyhood, 
and still an undergraduate at Oxford, had ex¬ 
pressed an opinion adverse to the Reform 
Bill of 1832, of which he had so long and bit- 




482 


WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE- 


terly repented, then the right hon. gentleman 
could not resist the temptation. 

He, a parliamentary leader of twenty years 
standing, is so ignorant of the House of Com¬ 
mons that he positively thought he got a par¬ 
liamentary advantage by exhibiting me as an 
opponent of the Reform Bill of 1832. As the 
right hon. gentleman has exhibited me, let 
mo exhibit myself. It is true, I deeply regret 
it, but I was bred under the shadow of the 
great name of Canning; every influence con¬ 
nected with that name governed the politics 
of my childhood and of my youth ; with 
Canning I rejoiced in the removal of religi¬ 
ous disabilities, and in the character which 
he gave to our policy abroad ; with Canning 
I rejoiced in the opening which he made to¬ 
wards the establishment of free commercial 


interchange between nations ; with Canning 
and under the shadow of that great name, 
and under the shadow of that yet more vener¬ 
able name of Burke, I grant, my youthful 
mind and imagination were impressed just 
the same as the mature mind of the right 
hon. gentleman is now impressed. 

I had conceived that fear and alarm of the 
first Reform L.il in the days of my under¬ 
graduate career at Oxford, which the right 
hon. gentleman now feels; and the only dif¬ 
ference between us is this —I thank him for 
bringing it out—that having those views, I 
moved the Oxford Union Debating Society 
to express them clearly, plainly, forcibly, in 
downright English, and that the right hon. 
gentleman is still obliged to skulk under the 
cover of the amendment of the noble lord. 


THE IRISH 

F we are prudent men, I hope we shall en¬ 
deavor as far as in us lies to make some 
provision for a contingent, a doubtful, and 
probably a dangerous future. If we be chiv¬ 
alrous men, I trust we shall endeavor to wipe 
away all these stains which the civilized world 
has for ages seen, or seemed to see, on the 
shield of England in her treatment of Ireland. 
If we be compassionate men, I hope we shall 
now, once for all, listen to the tale of woe 
which comes from her, and the reality of 
which, if not its justice, is testified by the con¬ 
tinuous emigration of her people—that we 
shall endeavor to 

“ Pluck from her memory a rooted sorrow', 

And raze the written troubles from her brain.” 

But, above all, if we be just men, we shall go 
forward in the name of truth and right, bear¬ 
ing this in mind—that when the case is proved 
and the hour is come, justice delayed is jus¬ 
tice denied. 

There are many who think that to lay hands 
upon the national Church Establishment of a 
country is a profane and unhallowed act. I 
respect that feeling. I sympathize with it 
while I think it my duty to overcome and re- 


CHURCH. 

press it. But if it be an error, it is an error 
entitled to respect. There is something in 
the idea of a national establishment of reli¬ 
gion, of a solemn appropriation of a part 
of the Commonw'ealth for conferring upon 
all w'ho are ready to receive it what we know 
to be an inestimable benefit; of saving 
that portion of the inheritance from private 
selfishness, in order to extract from it, if we 
can, pure and unmixed advantages of the 
highest order for the population at large. 

There is something in this so attractive that 
it is an image that must always command the 
homage of the many. It is somewhat like the 
kingly ghost in Hamlet, of which one of the 
characters of Shakespeare says : 

“ We do it wrong, being so majestical, 

To offer it the show of violence ; 

For it is, as the air, invulnerable, 

And our vain blows malicious mockery.” 

But, sir, this is to view a religious establish¬ 
ment upon one side, only upon what I may 
call the ethereal side. It has likewise a side of 
earth; and here I cannot do better than quote 
some lines written by the Archbishop of Dub¬ 
lin, at a time when his genius was devoted to 





WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE- 


483 


the muses. He said, in speaking of man¬ 
kind : 

“We who did our lineage high 
Draw from beyond the starry sky, 

Are yet upon the other side, 

To earth and to its dust allied.” 

And so the Church Establishment, regarded 
in its theory and in its aim, is beautiful and 
attractive. Yet what is it but an appropria¬ 
tion of public property, an appropriation of 
the fruits of labor and of skill to certain pur¬ 
poses, and unless these purposes are fulfilled, 
that appropriation cannot be justified. There¬ 
fore, sir, I cannot but feel that we must set 
aside fears which thrust themselves upon the 
imagination and act upon the sober dictates 
of our judgment. 

I think it has been shown that the cause 
for action is strong—not for precipitate action, 
not for action beyond our powers, but for such 
action as the opportunities of the times and 
the condition of Parliament, if there be but a 
ready will, will amply and easily admit of. If 


I am asked as to my expectations of the issue 
of this struggle, I begin frankly by avowing 
that I, for one, would not have entered into 
it unless I believed that the final hour was 
about to sound. 

And I hope that the noble lord will forgive 
me if I say that before Friday last I thought 
that the thread of the remaining life of the 
Irish Established Church was short, but that 
since Friday last, when at half-past four 
o’clock in the afternoon the noble lord stood 
at that table, I have regarded it as being 
shorter still. The issue is not in our hands. 

What we had and have to do is to consider 
well and deeply before we take the first step 
in an engagement such this; but having en¬ 
tered into the controversy, there and then to 
acquit ourselves like men, and to use every 
effort to remove what still remains of the 
scandals and calamities in the relations which 
exist between England and Ireland, and use 
our best efforts at least to fill up with the 
cement of human concord the noble fabric of 
the British empire. 


ON LORD MACAULAY. 


W HETHER he will subsist as a standard 
and supreme authority is another 
question. Wherever and whenever 
read, he will be read with fascination, with 
delight, with wonder. And with copious 
instruction too; but also with copious re¬ 
serve. 

We sometimes fancy that ere long there 
will be editions of his works in which his 
readers may be saved from pitfalls by brief, 
respectful, and judicious commentary; and 
that his great achievements may be at once 
commemorated and corrected by men of 
slower pace, of drier light, and of more tranquil, 


broad-set, and comprehensive judgment. For 
his works are in many respects among the 
prodigies of literature; in some, they have 
never been surpassed. As lights that have 
shone through the whole universe of letters, 
they have made their title to a place in the 
solid firmament of fame. 

But the tree is greater and better than its 
fruit; and greater and better yet than the 
works themselves are the lofty aims and con¬ 
ceptions, the large heart, the independent, 
manful mind, the pure and noble career, 
which in this biography have disclosed to us 
the true figure of the man who wrote them. 






Robert Browning. 

Author of “ Paracelsus.” 



[OBERT BROWNING, by some regarded the greatest of modern 
English poets, was born at Camberwell, a suburb of London, 
May 7, 1812. He traveled extensively in Italy, and made an 
exhaustive study of its history and people. His first poem of 
note, “ Paracelsus,” 1835, revealed his energy, boldness of 
thought and grasp of human passion. “ Men and Women,” 
containing some of his finest work, appeared in 1855, an( ^ hi s master¬ 
piece, “ The Ring and the Book,” in 1869. 

He also wrote several dramas, which were acted by Macready, Miss 
Cushman and other stars, but they did not meet with great popular favor- 
Browning is distinguished for the depth of his spiritual insight, his dra¬ 
matic energy and power of psychological analysis. His style is fre¬ 
quently obscure and difficult, his versification hard and rugged, and his 
rhymes forced. Browning died December 12, 1889, at Venice, the very 
day his last volume of poems was published, and was buried in West¬ 
minster Abbey. 

An extended correspondence with Elizabeth Barrett, the poetess, led 
to love and an engagement before Browning ever met her. The two were 
clandestinely married in 1846 and made their home in Florence. 


INCIDENTS OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 


Y OU know we French stormed Ratisbon: 
A mile or so away, 

On a little mound, Napoleon 
Stood on our storming-day; 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
Legs wide, arms locked behind, 

As if to balance the prone brow, 
Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, “ My plans 
That soar, to earth may fall, 

484 


Let once my army-leader Lannes 
Waver at yonder wall,”— 

Out ’twixt the battery-smoke there flew 
A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 
Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse’s mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect, 







ROBERT BROWNING. 


485 


(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 
Scarce any blood came through,) 

You looked twice ere you saw his breast 
Was all but shot in two. 

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace 
We’ve got you Ratisbon ! 

The marshal’s in the market-place, 

An d you’ll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
Where I, to heart’s desire, 


Perched him! ” The chief’s eye flashed ; 
Soared up again like fire. 

The chief’s eye flashed; but presently his 
Softened itself, as sheathes [plans 

A film the mother eagle’s eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
“You’re wounded !” “Nay,” his soldier’s 
Touched to the quick, he said : [pride 

“ I’m killed, sire! ” And, his chief beside, 
Smiling, the boy fell dead. 


THE MOTH’S KISS, FIRST! 


T HE Moth’s kiss, first! 

Kiss me as if you made believe 
You were not sure, this eve, 

How my face, your flower, had pursed 
Its petals up; so, here and there 
You brush it, till I grow aware 
Who wants me, and wide open burst. 


The Bee’s kiss, now! 

Kiss me as if you entered gay 
My heart at some noonday, 

A bud that dared not disallow 
The claim, so all is rendered up, 
And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 


ONE WAY OF LOVE. 


A LL June I bound the rose in sheaves; 
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves, 
And strew them where Pauline may pass, 
She will not turn aside ? Alas! 

Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 

The chance was they might take her eye. 

How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute! 

To-day I venture all I know. 


She will not hear my music ? So! 
Break the string—fold music’s wing. 
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! 

My whole life long I learned to love; 
This hour my utmost art I prove 
And speak my passion—Heaven or hell? 
She will not give me heaven ? ’Tis well— 
Lose who may—I still can say, 

Those who win in heaven, blest are they. 


EVELYN HOPE. 


B EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her bookshelf, this is her bed; 
She plucked that piece of geranium flower, 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass; 

Little has been changed, I think: 

The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
Save two long rays through the hinge’s chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 


It was not her time to love; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir, 

Till God’s hand beckoned unawares— 
And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 
Made you of spirit, fire and dew— 











486 


ROBERT BROWNING. 


And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was nought to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow mortals, nought beside ? 

No, indeed, for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make; 

And creates the love to reward the love: 

I claim you still, for my own love’s sake. 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse not a few; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 
Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come, at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I 
shall say) 


In the lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay ? 

Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium’s 
red, 

And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one’s stead. 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 
Given up myself so many times, 

Gained me the gains of various men, 
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 

Yet one thing, one in my soul’s full scope, 
Either I missed or itself missed me: 

And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 
What is this issue ? Let us see I 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 


T HIS is a spray the bird clung to, 

Making it blossom with pleasure, 
Ere.the high tree-top she sprung to, 

Fit for her nest and her treasure. 

Oh, what a hope beyond measure 
Was the poor spray’s, which the flying feet 
hung to— 

So to be singled out, built in, and sung to! 


This is a heart the queen lent on. 

Thrilled in a minute erratic, 

Ere the true bosom she bent on, 

Meet for loves’ regal dalmatic. 

Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 
Was the poor heart’s ere the wanderer went 
on— 

Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on ! 


THE FLOWER’S NAME. 


H ERE’S the garden she walked across, 

Arm in my arm such a short while 
since: 

Hark ! now I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. 
She must have reached this shrub ere she 
turned, 

As back with that murmur the wicket 
swung; 

For she laid the poor snail my chance foot 
spurned, 

To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Down this side of the gravel walk 
She went while her robe’s edge brushed the 
box, 

And here she paused in her gracious talk 
To point me a moth on the milk white phlox. 


Roses ranged in a valiant row, 

I will never think that she passed you by! 
She loves you, noble roses, I know ; 

But yonder see where the rock-plants lie! 

This flower she stooped at, finger on lip— 
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 
Its soft meandering Spanish name. 

What a name! was it love or praise? 

Speech half asleep, or song half awake? 

I must learn Spanish one of these days, 

Only for that slow sweet name’s sake. 

Roses, if I live and do well, 

I may bring her one of these days, 

To fix you fast with as fine a spell— 

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. 







ROBERT BROWNING. 


487 


But do not detain me now, for she lingers 
There, like sunshine over the ground ; 

And ever I see her soft white fingers 
Searching after the bud she found. 

Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow 
not, 

Stay as you are and be love forever. 

Bud, if I kiss you, ’tis that you blow not— 
Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never! 
For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, 
Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 


Till round they turn, and down they nestle: 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 

When I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

Whither I follow her, beauties flee. 

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 
June’s twice June since she breathed it with 
me ? 

Come, birds, show me the least of her traces. 

Treasure my lady’s lightest footfall: 

Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces— 
Roses, you are not so fair after all! 


THE LOST LEADER. 


J UST for a handful of silver he left us; 

Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat— 
Found the one gift of which fortune be¬ 
reft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote. 

They, with the gold to give, doled him out 
silver, 

So much was theirs who so little allowed : 
How all our copper had gone for his ser¬ 
vice ! 

Rags—were they purple, his heart had been 
proud! 

We that had loved him so, followed him, hon¬ 
ored him, 

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
Learned his great language, caught his clear 
accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 
Burns, Shelley, were with us—they watch 
from their graves! 

He alone breaks from the van and the free¬ 
men, 

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 


We shall march prospering—not through his 
presence, 

Songs may inspirit us—not from his lyre: 
Deeds will be done—while he boasts his quies¬ 
cence, [aspire. 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade 
Blot out his name then—record one lost soul 
more, [untrod; 

One task more declined, one more footpath 
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for 
angels, [God! 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to 
Life’s night begins ; let him never come back 
to us! 

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain ; 
Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of 
twilight, 

Never glad, confident morning again! 

Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike 
gallantly, [own; 

Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through bis 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and 
wait us, 

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! 







Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Distinguished for Poetic Gifts. 



RS. BROWNING must be considered one of the most gifted 
poets of our time, her works appealing especially to people of 
intellectual refinement and cultivated taste. In person she 
was slight, with dark hair and complexion; an easy modest 
manner and cordiality drew to her many friends. She was 
born in Durham, March 6, 1809. Her father, Mr. Barrett, was 
a wealthy merchant of London, who gave his daughter in early life the 
best opportunities for education. At ten years of age she exhibited fine 
poetical talent, which was diligently cultivated. Her fine poem on 
“ Cowper’s Grave” was published in 1838. 

In 1846 she was married to the poet, Robert Browning, with whom 
she resided in Italy for many years. She produced in 1851 “ Casa Guidi 
Windows,” a poem which treats of the political condition of Italy. 
“ This,” says the “ North British Review,” “ is the happiest of Mrs. 
Browning’s performances, because it makes no pretensions to high 
artistic character, and is really a simple story of personal impressions.” 
Her largest, and withal her greatest work, is “ Aurora Leigh,” a poem, 
or novel in verse, which is greatly admired. This was published in 1856, 
and in the same year a new addition of her poems was issued in three 
volumes. She died at Florence, Italy, in June, 1861. 


COWPER’S GRAVE. 


I T is a place where poets crowned may feel 
the heart’s decaying, 

It is a place where happy saints may weep 
amid their praying; 

Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as 
silence languish ! 

Earth surely now may give her calm to whom 
she gave her anguish. 

488 


O poets! from a maniac’s tongue was poured 
the deathless singing! 

O Christians! at your cross of hope a hope¬ 
less hand was clinging! 

O men ! this man in brotherhood your weary 
paths beguiling, 

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and 
died while ye were smiling ! 






ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 


489 


And now, what time ye all may read through 
brimming tears the story, 

How discord on the music fell, and darkness 
on the glory, 

And how, when one by one sweet sounds and 
wandering lights departed, 

He wore no less a loving face because so 
broken-hearted. 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet’s high 
vocation, 

And bow the meekest Christian down in 
meeker adoration; 

Nor ever shall he be in praise by wise or good 
forsaken; 

Named softly as the household name of one 
whom God hath taken. 

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learned to 
think upon him, 

With meekness that is gratefulness to God 
whose heaven hath won him, 

Who suffered once the madness-cloud to his 
own love to blind him, 

But gently led the blind along where breath 
and bird could find him ; 

An d wrought within his shattered brain such 
quick poetic senses 

As hills have language for, and stars har¬ 
monious influences: 

The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his 
within its number, 

And silent shadows from the trees refreshed 
him like a slumber. 

While timid hares were drawn from woods to 
share his home caresses, 

TJplooking to his human eyes with sylvan 
tendernesses; 


The very world, by God’s constraint, from 
falsehood’s ways removing. 

Its women and its men became, besides him 
true and loving. 

But though, in blindness, he remained uncon¬ 
scious of that guiding, 

And things provided came without the sweet 
sense of providing, 

He testified to this solemn truth, while frenzy- 
desolated. 

Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God 
created. 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother 
while she blesses, 

And drops upon his burning brow the cool¬ 
ness of her kisses, 

That turns his fevered eyes around: “ My 
mother ? where’s my mother ? 

As if such tender words and deeds could come 
from any other ? 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees 
her bending o’er him, 

Her face all pale from watchful love, the un¬ 
wearied love she bore him; 

Thus woke the poet from the dream his life’s 
long fever gave him, 

Beneath those deep pathetic eyes, that closed 
in death to save him ! 

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth can 
image that awaking. 

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of 
seraphs, round him breaking. 

Or felt the new, immortal throb of soul from 
body parted, 

But felt those eyes alone, and knew “My 
Saviour: not deserted ! ” 


THE SLEEP. 

He giveth his beloved sleep.”— Psalm cxxvii. 2. 


O F all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 
Along the Palmist’s music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is, 

For gift or grace, surpassing this,— 

“ He giveth his beloved sleep! ” 


What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero’s heart to be unmoved, 

The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep, 
The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse, 
The monarch’s crown to light the brows,- 
He giveth his beloved sleep! 






490 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 


What do we give to our beloved ? 

A little faith all undisproved, 

A little dust to overweep, 

And bitter memories to make 

The whole earth blasted for our sake,— 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 

“Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say, 

But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; 

But never doleful dream again 

Shall break his happy slumber when 
He giveth his beloved sleep. 

O earth, so full of dreary noises! 

O men, with wailing in your voices! 

O delved gold, the wailers heap! 

O strife and curse that o’er it fall! 

God strikes a silence through you all, 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 

His dews drop mutely on the hill; 

His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men sow and reap • 


More softly than the dew is shed, 

Or cloud is floated overhead, 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 

Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 
Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 

But angels say—and through the word 
I think their happy smile is heard — 

He giveth his beloved sleep! 

For me my heart, that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the mummers leap 
Would now its wearied vision close, 

Would childlike on His love repose 
Who giveth his beloved sleep. 

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep, 

Let One most loving of you all 
Say, “ Not a tear must o’er her fall; 

He giveth his beloved sleep.” 


THREE KISSES. 

FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 


L7 IB ST time he kissed me, he but only kissed 

| The fingers of this hand wherewith I 
write; 

And, ever since, it grew more clean and 
white, 

Slow to world-greetings, quick with its “ O 
list! ” 

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
I could not w r ear here, plainer to my sight, 
Than that first kiss. The second passed in 
height 


The first, and sought the forehead, and half 
missed, 

Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed! 
That was the chrism of love, which love’s 
own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, 

I have been proud, and said, “MyJove, my 
own! ” 


A WOMAN’S QUESTION. 


D O you know you have asked for the cost¬ 
liest thing— 

Ever made by the hand above— 

A woman’s heart, and a woman’s life, 

And a woman’s wonderful love? 


Do you know you have asked for this priceless 
thing 

As a child might ask for a toy? 

Demanding what others have died to win,— 
With the reckless dash of a boy. 








ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 


491 


You have written my lesson of duty out, 
Man-like you have questioned me— 

Now stand at the bar of my woman’s soul, 
Until I shall question thee. 

You require your mutton shall always be hot, 
Your socks and your shirts shall be whole ; 

I require your heart to be true as God’s stars, 
And pure as heaven your soul. 

You require a cook for your mutton and beef; 
I require a far better thing ; [shirts— 

A seamstress you’re wanting for stockings and 
I look for a man and a king: — 

A king for a beautiful realm called home, 
And a man that the Maker, God, 

Shall look upon as he did the first, 

And say, “ It is very good.” 


I am fair and young, but the rose will fade 
From my soft, young cheek one day— 

Will you love then, ’mid the falling leaves. 
As you did ’mid the bloom of May ? 

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep 
I may launch my all on its tide? 

A loving woman finds heaven or hell 
On the day she is made a bride. 

I require all things that are grand and true, 
All things that a man should be; 

If you give this all, I would stake my life 
To be all you demand of me. 

If you cannot do this—a laundress and cook 
You can hire with little to pay; 

But a woman’s heart and a Avoman’s life 
Are not to be won that way. 


HOW DO I LOVE THEE ? 

FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 


H OW do I love thee? Let me count the 
ways: 

I love thee to the depth, and breadth, 
and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling, out of 
sight, 

For the ends of being and ideal grace. 

I love thee to the level of every day’s 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

I love thee freely as men strive for right; 


I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s 
faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints. I love thee with the 
breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God 
choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 


THE CHILD AND THE WATCHER. 


S LEEP on, baby on the floor, 

Tired of all thy playing— 

Sleep with smile the sweeter for 
That you dropped away in ; 

On your curls’ fair roundness stand 
Golden lights serenely; 

One cheek, pushed out by the hand, 
Folds the dimple inly— 

Little head and little foot 
Heavy laid for pleasure; 
Underneath the lids half-shut 
Plants the shining azure ; 
Open-souled in noonday sun, 

So, you lie and slumber; 


Nothing evil having done, 
Nothing can encumber. 

I, who cannot sleep as well, 
Shall I sigh to view you ? 

Or sigh further to foretell 
All that may undo you ? 

Nay, keep smiling, little child, 
Ere the fate appeareth ! 

I smile, too; for patience mild 
Pleasure’s token weareth. 

Nay, keep sleeping before loss; 
I shall sleep, though losing! 

As by cradle, so by cross, 
Sweet is the reposing. 







492 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 


And God knows, who sees us twain, 
Child at childish leisure, 

I am all as tired of pain 
As you are of pleasure. 

Very soon, too, by His grace, 

Gently wrapt around me, 

I shall show as calm a face, 

I shall sleep as soundly— 
Differing in this, that you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping, 
While my hand must drop the few 
Given to my keeping— 


Differing in this, that I, 
Sleeping, must be colder. 

And, in waking presently, 
Brighter to beholder— 
Differing in this beside 

(Sleeper, have you heard me ? 
Do you move, and open wide 
Your great eyes toward me!) 
That while I you draw withal 
From this slumber solely, 

Me, from mine, an angel shall, 
Trumpet-tongued and holy! 


MY HEART AND I. 


E NOUGH ! we’re tired, my heart and I; 
We sit beside the headstone thus, 

And wish the name were carved for us; 
The moss reprints more tenderly 
The hard types of the mason’s knife, 

As Heaven’s sweet life renews earth’s life, 
With which we’re tired, my heart and I. 

You see we’re tired, my heart and I; 

We dealt with books, we trusted men, 

And in our own blood drenched the pen, 
As if such colors could not fly. 

We walked too straight for fortune’s end, 
We loved too true to keep a friend ; 

At last we’re tired, my heart and I. 

How tired we feel, my heart and I; 

We seem of no use in the world ; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncurled 
About men’s eyes indifferently; 

Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let 
You sleep ; our tears are only wet; 

What do we here, my heart and I ? 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I; 

It was not thus in that old time 
When Ralph sat with me ’neath the lime 
To watch the sun set from the sky : 


“ Dear Love, you’re looking tired,” he said ; 
I, smiling at him, shook my head ; 

’Tis now we’re tired, my heart and I. 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! 

Though now none takes me on his arm 
To fold me close and kiss me warm, 

Till each quick breath ends in a sigh 
Of happy languor. Now, alone 
We lean upon his graveyard stone, 
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 

Tired out we are, my heart and I. 

Suppose the world brought diadems 
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 
Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try. 

We scarcely care to look at even 
A pretty child, or God’s blue heaven, 

We feel so tired, my heart and I. 

Yet, who complains? My heart and I? 

In this abundant earth no doubt 
Is little room for things worn out; 

Disdain them, break them, throw them by ; 
And if before the days grew rough, 

We once were loved, then—well enough 
I think we’ve fared, my heart and I. 





George Gordon Byron. 

Celebrated Poet. 


EORGE GORDON BYRON, one of the most celebrated Eng¬ 
lish poets of modern days, was born in London, January 22, 
1788. His mother was a Scotch heiress, only daughter of 
George Gordon, Esq., of Gight, and his father was Captain 
Byron, or, as he was popularly termed, for his reckless proflig¬ 
acy, “ Mad Jack Byron of the Guards.” The parents of the 
poet lived unhappily together, and the heartless libertine who trans¬ 
mitted so many failings to his son, squandered the property of the woman 
he had married for her wealth, and reduced her to comparative poverty. 
Economy induced Mrs. Byron to take up her residence at Aberdeen, in 
1790, where her son was placed at school. 

Her management of young Byron was anything but judicious, and 
in her fits of passion, she even reproached him with the lameness of one 
of his feet, a deformity, which, although trifling, was severely felt by 
the sensitive poet, and even engendered many of his misanthropic views. 
It was rarely that he alluded to it in a jesting way. In his youth, how¬ 
ever, he was acquainted with a child who had a similar defect, and used 
to say to his nurse, in the Scotch dialect, which he had acquired: “ see 

the twa laddies wi’ the twa club feet ganging up the high street.” His 
rambles among the Highlands of Scotland had a strong effect upon his 
imagination, and probably kindled the spark, which afterwards bright¬ 
ened to a flame. In one of his poems he says : 

“ Long have I roamed through lands which are not mine, 

Adored the Alps, and loved the Appennine, 

Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
Jove’s Ida and Olympus crown the deep ; 

But ’twas not all long ages’ lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall; 

The infant rapture still survived the boy, 

And Loch-na-gar with Ida looked o’er Troy, 

Mixed Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount. 

And Highland linns with Castallie’s clear front. 

Forgive me, Homer’s universal shade! 

Forgive me, Phoebus! that my fancy strayed; 

The North and nature taught me to adore 
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before.” 



493 



494 


LORD BYRON. 


To this passage the following note is appended by the author: 

“ When very young, about eight years of age, after an attack of the 
scarlet fever at Aberdeen, I was removed by medical advice, into the 
Highlands. Here I passed occasionally some summers, and from this 
period I date my love of mountainous countries. I can never forget the 
effect, a few years afterwards in England, of the only thing I had long 
seen, even in miniature, of a mountain in the Malvern Hills. After I 
returned to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon at sunset, 
with a sensation which I cannot describe. This was boyish enough; but 
I was then only thirteen years of age, and it was in the holidays.” 

In the year 1798, on the death of his grand uncle, he became a 
chancery ward under the guardianship of the Earl of Carlisle, against 
whom he soon conceived a dislike. Placed at Harrow, he had to en¬ 
counter all the temptations and annoyances inseparable from public edu¬ 
cation. School-boys are not famous for feeling, and the lameness of 
Byron was perpetually called to mind by the rudest practical sarcasms. 
He would often wake, and find his lame foot plunged in a pail of water. 
Through Harrow he fairly “ fought his way.” 

In October, 1805, the young lord entered Cambridge University, 
where he was little distinguished for application, and showed no great 
respect for academic honors. He even evinced his contempt for them 
by keeping a young bear in his room, which he said he was training for 
a fellowship. In his 20th year he took up his abode at Newstead Abbey, 
a fine old building which he proceeded immediately to repair. His 
“ Hours of Idleness,” now appeared, a collection of poems written during 
his minority, which was attacked by the “ Edinburgh Review,” with a de¬ 
gree of malignity and violence that provoked the youthful bard to vindi¬ 
cate his reputation in a satire entitled “ English Bards and Scotch Re¬ 
viewers.” This severe and sweeping philippic appeared a few days after 
he had taken his seat in the House of Lords, and gained the favor of the 
public in a short time. He soon after went abroad, traveling through 
Portugal, Spain and Greece. The scenes through which he passed are 
finely described in “ Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.” In the east he swam 
from Sestos to Abydos, and prided himself greatly on this daring feat. 
He returned to England in 1811, after an absence of two years. 

He hastened to Newstead, but arrived too late to close the eyes of 
his mother. About this period the acquaintance between himself and 
the poet Thomas Moore commenced—an acquaintance which afterwards 


LORD BYRON. 


495 


ripened into the warmest friendship. On the 29th of February, 1812, 
appeared the first two cantos of “ Childe Harold,” and the success and 
sale of the work was instantaneous. The hero, a proud but melancholy 
wanderer, satiated with sensual pleasures, was at once recognized as a 
delineation of the noble author, notwithstanding his decisive denial. The 
“Giaour,” the “ Pride of Abydos,” and the “Corsair,” poems, in all of 
which the author displayed his unrivalled talents, and accurate knowl¬ 
edge of eastern customs and manners, followed at short intervals. Of 
one of these 20,000 copies were sold in one day. On the 2d of January, 
1815, Byron married Miss Milbanke, daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke. 
The marriage was unhappy, and after various quarrels, and much dis¬ 
tress, the parties separated. 

After a residence in Italy, where his dramas, and many poems were 
written, and where he was alternately dissolute and temperate, the revo¬ 
lution in Greece engaged his attention, and he determined to embark his 
person and fortune in the cause of liberty. He was received in Greece 
with enthusiasm, and proceeded to Missolonghi, where his reception was 
most gratifying to his feelings. He immediately formed a brigade of 500 
Sutiotes. He was aware of the dissensions existing among the Greeks, 
but was confident of their ultimate success. He was urged to go to 
Zante, on account of the unhealthiness of Missolonghi. “ I cannot quit 
Greece,” he wrote to a friend, “ while there is a chance of my being even 
of (supposed) utility.” 

On the 9th of April, while riding on horseback, he was overtaken by 
a rainstorm, and the feverish cold he took was the precursor of a fatal 
malady. He died April 19th, 1824 > his last thoughts, as his words in¬ 
dicated, were with his wife and child. His body was conveyed to Eng¬ 
land, and interred at Hucknall church, near Newstead Abbey. The in¬ 
terior of the coffin bore the following inscription: 

George Gordon Noel Byron, 

Lord Byron, 
of Rochdale ; 
born in London, 

Jan. 22, 1788. 
died at Missolonghi, 
in Western Greece, 

April 19, 1824. 

Most of Lord Byron’s vices sprang from his freedom from all con¬ 
trol at an age when he most stood in need of friendly advice and friendly 


496 


LORD BYRON. 


restraint, to guard Him from those evils which beset young men, and 
particularly, young men of rank, in the outset of their career. Yet his 
reckless gallantry, and laxity of morals, did not efface fine traits of feel¬ 
ing, benevolence, and a respect for virtue. 


DANIEL 

O F all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, 
Who passes for in life and death most 
lucky, 

Of the great names which in our faces stare, 
The General Boone, backwoodsman of Ken¬ 
tucky, 

Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere; 

For, killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 
Enjoyed the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 

Crime came not near him, she is not the child 
Of solitude ; health shrank not from him, for 
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild, 

Where if men seek her not, and death be 
more 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor, 

In cities caged. The present case in point I 
Cite is, that Boone lived hunting up to ninety ; 


BOONE. 

And, what’s still stranger, left behind a name 
For which men vainly decimate the throng, 
Not only famous, but of that good fame, 
Without which glory’s but a tavern song— 
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 

Which hate nor envy could e’er tinge with 
wrong; 

An active hermit, even in age the child 
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

’Tis true lief shrank from men, even of his 
nation; 

When they built up unto his darling trees, 
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 
Where there were fewer houses and more 
ease; 

The inconvenience of civilization 

Is that you neither can be pleased nor please; 
But where he met the individual man, 

He showed himself as kind as mortal can. 


FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 


F ARE thee well! and if forever, 

Still forever, fare thee well; 

Even though unforgiving, never 
’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While the placid sleep came o’er thee 
Which thou ne’er canst know again: 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show I 
Then thou wouldst at last discover 
’T was not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee— 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, 

Founded on another’s woe: 


Though my many faults defaced me, 
Could no other arm be found 

Than the one which once embraced me, 
To inflict a cureless wound? 

Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not; 

Love may sink by slow decay; 

But by sudden wrench, believe not 
Hearts can thus be torn away: 

Still thine own its life retaineth— 

Still must mine, though bleeding beat; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is—that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widowed bed. 






LORD BYRON. 


497 


And when thou wouldst solace gather, 
When our child’s first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say “ Father! ” 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is pressed, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
Think of him thy love had blessed! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou nevermore mayst see, 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowest, 

All my madness none can know; 


All my hopes, where’er thou goest, 
Whither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 

Bows to thee—by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now; 

But’t is done ; all words are idle— 
Words from me are vainer still; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will. 

Fare thee well!—thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 

Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, 
More than this I scarce can die. 


HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 


U NHAPPY White! while life was in its 
spring, 

And thy young muse just waved her joy¬ 
ous wing, 

The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there. 
O what a noble heart was there undone, 
When science self-destroyed her favorite son! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit; 
She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the 
fruit. 

’T was thine own genius gave the fatal blow, 
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee 
low. 


So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, 

No more through rolling clouds to soar 
again, 

Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 

And winged the shaft that quivers at his 
heart. 

Keen were his pangs; but keener far to feel 

He nursed the pinion which impelled the 
steel, 

While the same plumage that had warmed his 
nest 

Drank the last life-drop from his bleeding 
breast! 


NAPOLEON. 


? r I ''IS done—but yesterday a king! 

J And armed with kings to strive— 
And now thou art a nameless thing; 
So abject—yet alive! 

Is this the man of thousand thrones, 

Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, 
And can he thus survive ? 

Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, 

Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 
Who bowed so low the knee ? 

By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught’st the rest to see. 

32 


With might unquestioned—power to save— 
Thine only gift hath been the grave 
To those that worshipped thee: 

Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition’s less than littleness! 

Thanks for that lesson—it will teach 
To after warriors more 
Than high philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preached before. 

That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 

With fronts of brass and feet of clay. 







498 


LORD BYRON. 


The triumph and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife; 

The earthquake voice of victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 

The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seemed made but to obey, 
Wherewith renown was rife— 

All quelled!—Dark spirit! what must be 
The madness of thy memory! 

The desolator desolate! 

The victor overthrown! 

The arbiter of others’ fate 
A suppliant for his own! 

Is it some yet imperial hope, 

That with such change can calmly cope? 

Or dread of death alone ? 

To die a prince, or live a slave— 

Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 

He who of old would rend the oak 
Dreamed not of the rebound ; 

Chained by the trunk he vainly broke— 
Alone—how looked he round ? 


Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 

An equal deed hast done at length, 

And darker fate hast found: 

He fell, the forest-prowlers’ prey; 

But thou must eat thy heart away! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain ; 

Thy triumphs tell of fame no more. 

Or deepen every stain. 

If thou hadst died as honor dies, 

Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again ; 

But who would soar the solar height, 

To set in such a starless night! 

Weighed in the balance, hero dust 
Is vile as vulgar clay; 

Thy scales, mortality! are just 
To all that pass away: 

But yet methought the living great 
Some higher spark should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay ; 

Nor deemed contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the conquerors of the earth. 


SHE WALKS 

HE walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that’s best of dark and bright 
Meets in her aspect and her eyes; 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impaired the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 


IN BEAUTY. 

Or softly lightens o’er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 


ENSLAVED GREECE. 


H E who hath bent him o’er the dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled,— 
(The first dark day of nothingness, 
The last of danger and distress)— 

Before Decay’s effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers ; 

And marked the mild, angelic air, 

The rapture of repose that’s there, 

The fixed, yet tender traits that streak 


The languor of the placid cheek ; 

And—but for that sad, shrouded eye, 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,— 
And but for that chill, changeless brow 
Where old Obstruction’s apathy 
Appals the gazing mourner’s heart, 

As if to him it could impart 

The dooms he dreads, yet dwells upon.— 

Yes, but for these and these alone, 







LORD BYRON. 


499 


Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 

We still might doubt the tyrant’s power; 

So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, 

The first, last look by Death revealed! 

Such is the aspect of this shore: 

’Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 

We start—for soul is wanting there. 

Here is the loveliness in death 

That parts not quite with parting breath : 

But beauty with that fearful bloom, 

That here which haunts it to the tomb ; 
Expression’s last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hovering round decay, 

The farewell beam of Feeling passed away ! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly 
birth, 

Which gleams, but warms no more its cher¬ 
ished earth! 

Clime of the unforgotten brave! 

Whose land, from plain to mountain-cave, 
Was Freedom’s home, or glory’s grave! 
Shrine of the mighty! can it be 
That this is all that remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven, crouching slave! 


Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 

These waters blue that round you lave,— 
O servile offspring of the free— 

Pronounce—what sea, what shore is this? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis! 

These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own 1 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 

And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That tyranny shall quake to hear, 

And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 

They too will rather die than shame; 

For Freedom’s battle once begun, 
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 

Bear witness, Greece, thy living page! 
Attest it mauy a deathless age ! 

While kings, in dusky darkness hid, 

Have left a nameless pyramid, 

Thy heroes—though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb,— 
A mightier monument command, 

The mountains of their native land! 

There points the Muse to stranger’s eye 
The graves of those—that cannot die! 


GREECE. 


Y ET are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild, 
Sweet are thy groves and verdant are 
thy fields, 

Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled; 
And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields. 


There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The free-born wanderer of thy mountain air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds ; 

Still in his beam Mendeli’s marbles glare; 
Art, glory, freedom fail, but nature still is fair. 


APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 


R OLL on, thou deep and dark blue ocean— 
roll? 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in 
vain: 

Man marks the earth with ruin—his control 
Stops with the shore; —upon the watery 
plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth re¬ 
main 

A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, 


When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinksinto thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and 
unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths—thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him—thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile strength 
he yields 

For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise 







500 


LORD BYRON. 


Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send’st him, shivering in thy playful 
spray 

And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earththere let 
him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thyyest of waves which mar 
Alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Tra¬ 
falgar, 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 
thee— 

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 
they? 

Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so 
thou, 


Unchangeable save to thy wild waves, play— 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow— 
Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest 
now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s 
form 

Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 

Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark heaving; boundless, endless and sub¬ 
lime— 

The image of eternity—the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each 
zone 

Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathom¬ 
less, alone. 

And I have loved thee, ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy 
I wanton’d with the breakers—they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear ; 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 

And trusted to thy billows, far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do 
here. 


THE SNOWS ON PARNASSUS. 


A LP felt his soul become more light 

Beneath the freshness of the night; 
Cool was the silent sky though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm. 
Behind, the camp; before him lay, 

In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto’s gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi’s hill, unshaken snow. 

High and eternal, such as shone, 

Through thousand summer’s brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime : 

It will not melt, like man, to time. 


Tyrant and slave are swept away, 

Less formed to wear before the ray; 

But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o’er its craggy battlement. 

In form a peak, in height a cloud, 

In texture like a hovering shroud, 

Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 

And lingered on the spot where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 






Thomas Campbell. 

Author of the “ Pleasures of Hope.” 


EST known,” says William Allingham, “ by bis remarkable 
poem, ‘ The Pleasures of Hope,’ Campbell’s fame rests upon 
other productions which do not seem to lose their charm. 
He wrote in the taste of the time, yet with no small degree 
of originality, and he handled topics of immediate though 
ephemeral interest. His battle-pieces on names and subjects 
known to all had the true popular ring, a bold tramp of metre. 

“ Little matters how Campbell managed to produce his most inspir¬ 
ing poems. He had the touch, that is what is certain. Many of his 
short poems had the unmistakable stamp of the artist upon them. Com¬ 
pared as lyrical writers, Campbell seems to have a finer touch than Scott 
or Byron, the former of whom is apt to be rough, the latter turgid. But 
in whatever rank one or another reader may place the poetry of Camp¬ 
bell all will agree that he made genuine additions to English literature.” 
“ It is on his lyrics,” says Professor Aytoun, tl that the future reputation 
of Campbell must principally rest. They have taken their place, never 
to be disturbed, in the popular heart; and, until the language in which 
they are written perishes, they are certain to endure.” 

Thomas Campbell was the youngest of eleven children of a Glasgow 
merchant. He was born July 27, 1777, and received a university educa¬ 
tion. “ His Pleasures of Hope,” which achieved instant success, gave 
him the means to visit the continent and study at Gottingen. He refused 
the offer of a chair at Wilna and returned to London, where he came near 
being arrested as a Jacobite. His “ Exile of Erin,” “ Lochiel’s Warn¬ 
ing,” and “Ye Mariners of England ” were well received, but his life was 
a constant struggle with poverty, and to support those dependent on him 
he compiled articles for the “ Edinburgh Encyclopaedia,” a history of the 
reign of George III., and “ Specimens of the British Poets.” 

He originated the project of the London University, and was thrice 
elected lord rector of the University of Glasgow. Besides those men¬ 
tioned, Campbell’s “ Gertrude of Wyoming ” and “ O’Connor’s Child ” are 

501 





502 


THOMAS CAMPBELL. 


among his most notable works. He died at Boulogne June 15* 1S44, and 
was buried in Westminster Abbey. As a lyric poet Campbell ranks 
very high, bis “ Hobenlinden ” showing perhaps greatest merit. 


’TIS DISTANCE LENDS ENCHANTMENT TO THE VIEW.’ 

FROM “PLEASURES OF HOPE.” 


A T summer eve, when heaven’s aerial bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering 
hills below, 

Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the 
sky? 

Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling 
near? 

’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life’s unmeasured way ; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 


More, pleasing seems than all the past hath 
been 

And every form that fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 
What potent spirit guides the raptured 
eye 

To pierce the shadows of dim futurity ? 

Can wisdom lend, with all her heavenly 
power, 

The pledge of joy’s anticipated hour ? 

Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man— 
Her dim horizon pointed to a span: 

Or, if she hold an image to the view, 

’Tis nature pictured too severely true. 


NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR. 

A TRUE STORY. 


N APOLEON’S banners at Boulogne 

Armed in our island every freeman, 
His navy chanced to capture one 
Poor British seaman. 

They suffered him—I know not how— 
Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; 

And aye was bent his longing brow 
On England’s home. 

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
Of birds to Britain half-way over, 

With envy, they could reach the white 
Dear cliffs of Dover. 

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 

Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 
If but the storm his vessel brought 
To England nearer. 

At last, when care had banished sleep, 

He saw one morning—dreaming—doating, 
An empty hogshead from the deep 
Come shoreward floating; 


He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
The livelong day laborious; lurking 

Until he launched a tiny boat 
By mighty working. 

Heaven help us! ’tv-as a thing beyond 
Description wretched: such a wherry 

Perhaps ne’er ventured on a pond, 

Or crossed a ferry. 

For ploughing in the salt sea-field, 

It would have made the boldest shudder ; 

Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, 

No sail—no rudder. 

From neighboring woods he interlaced 
His sorry skiff'with wattled willows; 

And thus equipped he would have passed 
The foaming billows— 

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 
His little Argo sorely jeering; 

Till tidings of him chanced to reach 
Napoleon’s hearing. 







THOMAS CAMPBELL. 


503 


With folded arms Napoleon stood, 

Serene alike in peace and danger: 

And in his wonted attitude, 

Addressed the stranger :— 

“ Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass 
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned ; 
Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
Must be impassioned.” 

“ I have no sweetheart,” said the lad ; 

“ But—absent long from one another— 
Great was the longing that I had 
To see my mother.” 


“ And so thou shalt,” Napoleon said, 
“You’ve both my favor fairly won ; 

A noble mother must have bred 
So brave a son. 

He gave the tar a piece of gold, 

And with a flag of truce commanded 

He should be shipped to England Old, 
And safely landed. 

Our sailor oft could scantly shift 
To find a dinner plain and hearty; 

But never changed the coin and gift 
Of Bonaparte. 


WOMAN’S SMILE. 

FROM “PLEASURES OF HOPE.” 


r T"'ILL Hymen brought his love-delighted 
hour, 

There dwelt no joy in Eden’s rosy bower! 
In vain the viewless seraph lingering there 
At starry midnight charmed the silent air ! 

In vain the wild bird carolled on the steep, 
To hail the sun, slow-wheeling from the deep : 
In vain to soothe the solitary shade, 

Aerial notes in mingled measure played ; 


The summer wind that shook the spangled 
tree, 

The whispering wave, the murmur of the 
bee; 

Still slowly passed the melancholy day, 

And still the stranger wist not where to stray— 

The world was sad! the garden was a wild! 

And man, the hermit, sighed—till woman 
smiled. 


EXILE OF ERIN. 


T HERE came to the beach a poor Exile 
of Erin, 

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and 
chill; 

For his country he sighed when at twilight 
repairing 

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad de¬ 
votion, 

For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean. 
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh ! 

“Sad is my fate!” said the heartbroken 
stranger; 

“ The wild deer and wolf to a covert can 
flee; 

But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 
A home and a country remain not to me. 


Never again in the green sunny bowers 

Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the 
sweet hours, 

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers 

And strike to the numbers of Erin go 
bragh! 

“ Erin, my country! though sad and for¬ 
saken, 

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 

But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken, 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no 
more. 

O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can 
chase me, 

Never again shall my brothers embrace mo? 

They died to defend me, or lived to d - 
plore! 







504 


THOMAS CAMPBELL. 


“ Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild- 
wood ? 

Sisters and sire, did you weep for its fall ? j 
Where is the mother that looked on my child¬ 
hood? 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer 
than all ? 

Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears like the rain-drop may fall without 
measure, 

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 


“Yet, all its sad recollection suppressing, 

One dying wish my lone bosom can 
draw ; 

j Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 

Land of my forefathers —Erin go bragh! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her 
motion, 

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the 
ocean ! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with 
devotion, 

Erin mavoumeen—Erin go bragh! ” 


TO A FAIR YOUNG FRIEND. 


C OULD I bring lost youth back again, 
And be what I have been, 

I’d court you in a gallant strain, 

My young and fair Florine. 

But mine’s the chilling age that chides 
Devoted rapture’s glow; 


And love, that conquers all besides. 
Finds time a conquering foe. 

Farewell! we’re severed by our fate 
As far as night from noon; 

You came into this world so late. 
And I depart so soon! 


LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. 


A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry! 

And I’ll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o’er the ferry.” 

“ Now who be ye, would cross Loch gyle, 

This dark and stormy water ? ” 

“ 0, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, 

And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. 

“ And fast before her father’s men 
Three days we’ve fled together; 

For should he find us in the glen, 

My blood would stain the heather. 

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride; 

Should they our steps discover, 

Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover ? ”— 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 

“ I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready. 

It is not for your silver bright, 

But for your winsome lady. 


“ And by my word! the bonny bird 
Iu danger shall not tarry; 

So, though the waves are raging white,. 
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” 

By this the storm grew loud apaoe; 

The water-wraith was shrieking; 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 

And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men— 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

“ Oh haste thee, haste! ” the lady cries : 
“ Though tempests round us gather; 
I’ll meet the raging of the skies, 

But not an angry father.” 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her— 

When, oh! too strong for human hand, 
The tempest gathered o’er her* 











THOMAS CAMPBELL. 


505 


Aud still they rowed amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing; 

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore; 

His wrath was changed to wailing, 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade 
His child he did discover: 

One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 


“ Come back ! come back! ” he cried in grief, 
“ Across this stormy water; 

And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter !—Oh, my daughter! ” 

’Twas vain:—the loud waves lashed the shore, 
Return or aid preventing : 

The waters wild went o’er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 


FLOWERS—THE GEMS OF NATURE. 


G EMS of the changing autumn, how beau¬ 
tiful ye are! 

Shining from your glossy stems like 
many a golden star ; 

Peeping through the long grass, smiling on 
the down, 


Lighting up the dusky bank, just where the 
sun goes down; 

Yellow flowers of autumn, how beautiful ye 
are! 

Shining from your glossy stems like many a 
golden star. 


THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. 


O UR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud 
had lowered, 

And the sentinel stars set their watch 
in the sky; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground over¬ 
powered— 

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of 
straw, 

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the 
slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful 
array 

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 
’Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed 
me back. 


I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 
In life’s morning march, when my bosom 
was young; 

I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft. 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn- 
reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I 
swore 

From my home and my weeping friends 
never to part; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of 
heart. 

Stay, stay with us!—rest; thou art weary and 
worn!— [stay; 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to 

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted 
away. 







Charles Dickens. 

The World’s Greatest Novelist. 



IKE every author gifted with unmistakable genius, Dickens made 
his own place in literature, not by newspaper praise, not by 
the endorsement of pretentious critics, but by the merit of his 
works. These are descriptive, pathetic, humorous, and contain 
such delineations of character as we get from the pen of no 
other author. Charles Dickens was a phenomenon. Consid¬ 
ering the great number of his stories, no one can help expressing surprise 
at their variety, their originality and sustained power. He vaulted into 
notoriety with “ Pickwick Papers,” and then for many years wielded his 
magic pen with increasing deftness and success. 

The name of Gladstone, or Napoleon, or Lincoln, or McKinley, is 
not better known than that of Pickwick, or Micawber, or Pecksniff, or 
Uriah Heap, or Mark Tapley, or Barkis, or Sairy Gamp, or Little Nell, 
or many others that might be mentioned, all of which, although fictitious, 
seem quite as real as any historic character from Julius Csesar to General 
Grant. What amazing genius could create these characters and endow 
them with an endless life ? There has never been but one man who could 
make fictitious characters so life-like and so universally known, causing 
them to become, as it were, household names. 

The great novelist, whose works of fiction are known and read 
throughout the civilized world, and who gained a renown unequaled by 
that of any author of recent times, was born at Portsmouth, England, 
February 7, 1812. His father wished him to enter the profession of law, 
but soon becoming disgusted with it, because he was conscious that it was 
not his proper sphere, he gave up the study of it, removed to London, and 
became a reporter for the “ Morning Chronicle.” For this paper he began 
to write sketches that at once attracted attention and showed their author 
to be possessed of an uncommon faculty for depicting common life both 
in its tragic and humorous phases. 

Dickens was only 24 years old when he published “ Pickwick 
Papers.” He immediately sprang into popularity, and became the 

506 





CHARLES DICKENS. 


507 


favorite writer of both England and America. His subsequent works, 
such as “ Oliver Twist,” “ Nicholas Nickelby,” “ David Copperfield,” “ A 
Tale of Two Cities.” “The Old Curiosity Shop,” and many others, all served 
to increase his reputation, although it was predicted that he would soon 
“write himself out.” He maintained his reputation by his wonderful 
creations in the realm of fiction and the charm of his transcendent 
genius. 

Many of his works show intense sympathy with the lower classes 
and the struggling poor, the hard worked sons and daughters of toil, and 
those who are the victims of greed and oppression. It is not too much 
to say that some of the most important reforms in England which bene- 
fitted the laboring classes could be traced directly to the influence of his 
masterly pen. Mr. Dickens came to this country on two occasions. On 
the first he angered many of his admirers by his caustic comments on 
American society and customs. On the second occasion he appeared as a 
public reader of his own works and was welcomed by thousands in all our 
larger cities. Work was his element, in fact, over-work, from which he 
undoubtedly died, June 9,1870, and was buried in “ Poet’s Corner,” West¬ 
minster Abbey. 


MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 

FROM “PICKWICK PAPERS.” 


J“ > vEAR me, it’s time to go to bed. It 

|_ ) will never do, sitting here. I shall 

be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick!” 

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. 
Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chamber¬ 
maid ; and the striped bag, the red bag, the 
leather hat-box and the brown-paper parcel 
having been conveyed to his bed-room, he 
retired in company with a japanned candle¬ 
stick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pick¬ 
wick and another japanned candlestick were 
conducted through a multitude of tortuous 
windings to another. 

“ This is your room, sir,” said the chamber¬ 
maid. 

“ Very well,” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking 
round him. It was a tolerably large double- 
bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole a 
more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. 
Pickwick’s short experience of the accommo¬ 


dations of the Great White Horse had led 
him to expect. 

“ Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,” 
said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Oh, no, sir.” 

“ Very good. Tell my servant to bring me 
up some hot water at half-past eight in the 
morning, and that I shall not want him any 
more to-night.” 

“Yes, sir.” And bidding Mr. Pickwick 
good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left 
him alone. 

Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair 
before the fire, and fell into a train of ramb¬ 
ling meditations, when he recollected he had 
left his watch on the table down-stairs. The 
possibility of going to sleep, unless it were tick¬ 
ing gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch- 
pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. 
Pickwick’s brain. So as it was pretty Lite 




508 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at 
that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, 
of which he had just divested himself, and 
taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, 
walked quietly down stairs. 

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, 
the more stairs there seemed to be to descend, 
and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got 
into some narrow passage, and began to con¬ 
gratulate himself on having gained the ground- 
floor, did another flight of stairs appear before 
his asionished eyes. At last he reached a 
stone hall, which he remembered to have seen 
when he entered the house. Passage after pass¬ 
age did he explore; room after room did he 
peep into; at length,just as he was on the 
point of giving up the search in despair, he 
opened the door of the identical room in which 
he had spent the evening, and beheld his miss¬ 
ing property on the table. 

Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, 
and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bed¬ 
chamber. If his progi ess downward had been 
attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his 
journey back was infinitely more perplexing. 
He was reduced to the verge of despair, when 
an open door attracted his attention. He 
peeped in—right at last. There were the two 
beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, 
and the fire still burning. His candle, not a 
long one when he first received it, had flick¬ 
ered away in the drifts of air through which 
he had passed, and sank into the socket, just 
as he closed the door after him. “ No matter,” 
said Mr. Pickwick, “I can undress myself 
just as well by the light of the fire.” 

“ It is the best idea,” said Mr. Pickwick to 
himself, smiling till he almost cracked the 
night-cap strings. “ It is the best idea, my 
losing myself in this place, and wandering 
about those staircases, that I ever heard of. 
Droll, droll, very droll.” Here Mr. Pickwick 
smiled again, a broader smile than before, and 
was about to continue the process of undress¬ 
ing in the best of humor, when he was sud¬ 
denly stopped by an unexpected interruption : 
to-wit, the entrance into the room of some 
person with a candle, who, after locking the 
door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set 
down the light upon it. 


Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror 
and dismay. Standing before the dressing- 
glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl¬ 
papers, busily engaged in brushing what 
ladies call their “back hair.” However the 
unconscious middle-aged lady came into that 
room, it was quite clear that site contemplated 
remaining there for the night; for she had 
brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, 
with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she 
had stationed in a basin on the floor, where 
it was glimmering away like a gigantic light¬ 
house, in a particularly small piece of water. 

“Bless my soul,” thought Mr. Pickwick, 

“ how very dreadful! ” 

“ Hem ! ” said the lady; aud in went Mr. 
Pickwick’s head with automaton-like ra¬ 
pidity. 

“ I never met with anything so awful as 
this,” thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold 
perspiration starting in drops upon his night¬ 
cap. “ Never! This is fearful.” 

It was quite impossible to resist the urgent 
desire to see what was going forward. So out 
went Mr. Pickwick’s head again. The pros¬ 
pect was worse than before. The middle-aged 
lady had finished arranging her hair, and 
carefully enveloped it in a muslin night-cap 
with a small plaited border, and was gazing 
pensively on the fire. 

“ This matter is growing alarming,” reasoned 
Mr. Pickwick wiih himself. “ I can’t allow 
things to go on in this way. By the self-pos¬ 
session of that lady, it is clear to me that I 
must have come into the wrong room. If I 
call out, she’ll alarm the house, but if I re¬ 
main here, the consequences will be still more 
frightful.” 

He shrank behind the curtains, and called 
out very loudly: 

“ Ha-hum! ” 

That the lady started at this unexpected 
sound was evident, by her falling up against 
the rush-light shade; that she persuaded her¬ 
self it must have been the effect of her im¬ 
agination was equally clear, for when Mr. 
Pickwick, under the impression that she had 
fainted away stone-dead from fright, ventured 
to peep out again, she was gazing pensively 
| on the fire as before. 






CHARLES DICKENS. 


509 


“ Most extraordinary female this,” thought 
Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. “ Ha-hum ! ” 

“ Gracious Heaven! ” said the middle-aged 
lady, “ what’s that ?” 

“ It’s—it’s—only a gentleman, ma’am,” said 
Mr. Pickwick from behind the curtains. 

“ A gentleman ! ” said the lady, with a ter¬ 
rific scream. 

“ It’s all over,” thought Mr. Pickwick. 

“ A strange man ! ” shrieked the lady. An¬ 
other instant and the house would be alarmed. 
Her garments rustled as she rushed towards 
the door. 

“ Ma’am! ” said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting 
out his head, in the extremity of his despera¬ 
tion, “ma’am!” 

“Wretch,” said the lady, covering her eyes 
with her hands, “ What do you want here? ” 

“Nothing, ma’am — nothing whatever, 
ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly. 

“ Nothing! ” said the lady, looking up. 

“Nothing, ma’am, upon my honor,” said 
Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetic¬ 
ally that the tassel of his night-cap danced 
again. “I am almost ready to sink, ma’am, 
because of the confusion of addressing a lady 
in my night-cap (here the lady hastily snatched 
off her’s), but I can’t get it off, ma’am (here 
Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in 
proof of the statement). It is evident to me, 
ma’am, now, that I have mistaken this bed¬ 
room for my own. I had not been here five 


minutes, ma’am, when you suddenly en¬ 
tered it.” 

“ If this improbable story be really true, 
sir,” said the lady, sobbing violently, “you 
will leave it instantly.” 

“ I will, ma’am,” with the greatest pleasure,” 
replied Mr. Pickwick, 

“ Instantly, sir,” said the lady. 

“Certainly, ma’am,” interposed Mr. Pick¬ 
wick, very quickly. “ Certainly, ma’am. I— 
I—am very sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. Pick¬ 
wick, making his appearance at the bottom 
of the bed, “to have been the innocent occa¬ 
sion of this alarm and emotion ; deeply sorry, 
ma’am.” 

The lady pointed to the door. 

“ I am exceedingly sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. 
Pickwick, bowing very low. 

“ If you are, sir, you will at once leave the 
room,” said the lady. 

“ Immediately ma’am ; this instant, ma’am,” 
said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door, and 
dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in 
so doing. “ I trust, ma’am,” resumed Mr. 
Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turn¬ 
ing round to bow again, “ I trust, ma’am, that 
my unblemished character, and the devoted 
respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as 
some slight excuse for this—” But before 
Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, 
the lady had thrust him into the passage, and 
locked and bolted the door behind him. 


RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 


1 HAYE been looking on, this evening, at a 
merry company of children assembled 
round that pretty German toy, a Christ¬ 
mas tree. 

Being now at home again, and alone, the 
only person in the house awake, my thoughts 
are drawn back, by a fascination which I do 
not care to resist, to my own childhood. 
Straight in the middle of the room, cramped 
in the freedom of its growth by no encircling 
walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree 
arises; and, looking up into the dreamy bright¬ 
ness of its top,—for I observe in this tree the 
singular property that it appears to grow 


downward towards the earth,—I look into my 
youngest Christmas recollections. 

All toys at first, I find. But upon the 
branches of the tree, lower down, how thick 
the books begin to hang! Thin books, in 
themselves, at first, but many of them, with 
deliciously smooth covers of bright red or 
green. What fat black letters to begin with ! 

“ A was an archer, and shot at a frog.” Of 
course he was. He was an apple-pie also, and 
there he is! He was a good many things in 
his time, was A, and so were most of his 
friends, except X, who had so little versatility 
that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes 





510 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


or Xantippe: like T, who was always con¬ 
fined to a yacht or a yew-tree ; and Z, con¬ 
demned forever to be a zebra or a zany. 

But now the very tree itself changes, and 
becomes a bean-stalk,—the marvelous bean¬ 
stalk by which Jack climbed up to the giant’s 
house. Jack,—how noble, with his sword of 
sharpness and his shoes of swiftness! 

Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color 
of the cloak in which, the tree making a forest 
of itself for her to trip through with her 
basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me 
one Christmas eve, to give me information of 
the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling 
wolf who ate her grandmother, without mak¬ 
ing any impression on his appetite, and then 
ate her, after making that ferocious joke about 
his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I 
could have married Little Red Riding-Hood 
I should have known perfect bliss. But it 
was not to be, and there was nothing for it 
but to look out the wolf in the Noah’s Ark 
there, and put him late in the procession on 
the table, as a monster who was to be de¬ 
graded. 

Oh, the wonderful Noah’s Ark! It was 
not found seaworthy when put in a washing- 
tub, and the animals were crammed in at the 
roof, and needed to have their legs well shaken 
down before they could be got in even there ; 
and then ten to one but they began to tumble 
out at the door, which was but imperfectly 
fastened with a wire latch; but what was that 
against it ? 

Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller 
than the elephant; the lady-bird, the butter¬ 
fly, — all triumphs of art! consider the goose, 
whose feet were so small and whose balance 
was so indifferent that he usually tumbled 
forward and knocked down all the animal 
creation ! consider Noah and his family, like 
idiotic tobacco-stoppers; and how the leopard 
stuck to warm little fingers; and how the 
tails of the larger animals used gradually to 
resolve themselves into frayed bits of string. 

Hush! Again a forest, and somebody up 
in a tree,—not Robin Hood, not Valentine, 
not the Yellow Dwarf,—I have passed him 
and all Mother Bunch’s wonders without 
mention,—but an Eastern King with a glitter¬ 


ing scymitar and turban. It is the setting-in 
of the bright Arabian Nights. 

Oh, now all common things become uncom¬ 
mon and enchanted to me! All lamps are 
wonderful! all rings are talismans ! Common 
flower-pot3 are full of treasure, with a little 
earth scattered on the top; trees are for Ali 
Baba to hide in ; beefsteaks are to throw 
dowu into the Valley of Diamonds, that the 
precious stones may stick to them, and be 
carried by the eagles to their nests, whence 
the traders, with loud cries, will scare them. 
All the dates imported come from the same 
tree as that unlucky one with whose shell the 
merchant knocked out the eye of the genii’s 
invisible son. All olives are of the same 
stock of that fresh fruit concerning which the 
Commander of the Faithfal overhead the boy 
conduct the fictitious trial of the fraudulent 
olive-merchant. Yes, on every object that I 
recognize among those upper branches of my 
Christmas tree I see this fairy light! 

But hark ! the Waits are playing, and they 
break my childish sleep! What images do I 
associate with the Christmas music as I see 
them set forth on the Christmas tree! Known 
before all the others, keeping far apart from 
all the others, they gather round my little bed. 

An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds 
in a field; some travelers, with eyes uplifted, 
following a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child 
in a spacious temple, talking with grave men: 
a solemn figure with a mild and beautiful 
face, raising a dead girl by the hand ; again, 
near a city gate, calling back the son of a 
widow, on his bier, to life; a crowd of people 
looking through the opened roof of a chamber 
where he sits, and letting down a sick person 
on a bed, with ropes ; the same, in a tempest., 
walking on the waters; in a ship, again, on a 
sea-shore, teaching a great multitude; again, 
with a child upon his knee, and other child¬ 
ren around; again, restoring sight to the 
blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, 
health to the sick, strength to the lame, 
knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon 
a cross, watched by armed soldiers, a dark¬ 
ness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, 
and only one voice heard, “ Forgive them, for 
* they know not what they do! ” 





CHARLES DICKENS. 


511 


Encircled by the social thoughts of Christ¬ 
mas time, still let the benignant figure of my 
childhood stand unchanged ! In every cheer¬ 
ful image and suggestion that the season 
brings, may the bright star that rested above 
the poor roof be the star of all the Christian 
world! 

A moment’s pause, O vanishing tree, of 


which the lower boughs are dark to me yet, 
and let me look once more. I know there are 
blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that 
I have loved have shone and smiled, from 
which they are departed. But, far above, I 
see the Raiser of the dead girl and the widow’s 
son,—and God is good ! 


LITTLE NELL’S FUNERAL. 


A ND now the bell—the bell 

She had so often heard by night and 
day, 

And listened to with solemn pleasure, 

Even as a living voice,— 

Rung its remorseless toll for her, 

So young, so beautiful, so good. 

Decrepit age, and vigorous life, 

And blooming youth and helpless infancy, 
Poured forth—on crutches, in the pride of 
strength 

And health, in the full blush 
Of promise, the mere dawn of life— 
To gather round her tomb. Old men were 
there, 

Whose eyes were dim 
And senses failing— 

Grandames, who might have died ten years ago, 
And still been old—the deaf, the blind, the 
lame, 

The palsied, 

The living dead in many shapes and forms, 
To see the closing of this early grave. 


What was the death it would shut in, 

To that which still could crawl and creep 
above it! 

Along the crowded path they bore her now; 

Pure as the new fallen snow 
That covered it; whose day on earth 

Had been as fleeting. 

Under that porch, where she had sat when 
Heaven 

In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot. 
She passed again, and the old church 
Received her in its quiet shade. 

They carried her to one old nook, 

Where she had many and many a time sat 
musing, 

And laid their burden softly on the pave¬ 
ment. 

The light streamed on it through 
The colored window—a window where the 
boughs 

Of trees were ever rustling 
In the summer, and where the birds 

Sang sweetly all day long. 


THE FRIENDLY WAITER 

FROM “DAVID COPPERFIELD.” 


T HE coach was in the yard, shining very 
much all over, but without any horses 
to it as yet; and it looked in that state 
as if nothing was more unlikely than its ever 
going to London. I was thinking this, and 
wondering what would ultimately become of 
my box, which Mr. Bai’kis had put down on 
the yard-pavement by the pole (he having 
driven up the yard to turn his cart), and also 
what would ultimately become of me, when a 


lady looked out of a bow-window where some 
fowls and joints of meat were hanging up, 
and said: 

“ Is that the little gentleman from Blunder- 
stone? ” 

<£ Yes, ma’am,” I said. 

“ What name? ” inquired the lady. 

“ Copperfield, ma’am,” I said. 

<£ That won’t do,” returned the lady. ££ No¬ 
body’s dinner is paid for here in that name.” 







CHARLES DICKENS. 


£12 


“ Is it Murdstone, ma’am! ” I said. 

“ If you’re Master Murdstone,” said the 
lady, “why do you go and give another name 
first ? ” 

I explained to the lady how it was, who 
then rang a bell, and called out, “ William! 
show the coffee-room!” upon which a waiter 
came running out of a kitchen on the opposite 
side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good 
deal surprised when he found he was only to 
show it to me. 

It was a large long room with some large 
maps in it. I doubt if I could have felt much 
stranger if the maps had been real foreign 
countries, and I cast away in the middle of 
them. I felt it was taking a liberty to sit 
down, with my cap in my hand, on the corner 
of the chair nearest the door ; and when the 
waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put 
a set of casters on it, I think I must have 
turned red all over with modesty. 

He brought me some chops and vegetables, 
and took the covers off in such a bouncing 
manner that I was afraid I must have given 
him some offence. But he greatly relieved my 
mind by putting a chair for me at the table, 
and saying very affably, “ Now, six-foot! 
come on! ” 

I thanked him; and took my seat at the 
board; but found it extremely difficult to 
handle my knife and fork with anything like 
dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with 
the gravy, while he was standing opposite, 
staring so hard, and making me blush in the 
most dreadful manner every time I caught his 
eye. After watching me into the second chop, 
he said: 

“ There’s half a pint of ale for you. Will 
you have it now? ” 

I thanked him, and said “ Yes.” Upon 
which he poured it out of a jug into a large 
tumbler, and held it up against the light, and 
made it look beautiful. 

“My eye!” he said. “It seems a good 
deal, don’t it?” 

“It does seem a good deal,” I answered, 
with a smile. For it was quite delightful to 
me to find him so pleasant. He was a twink¬ 
ling-eyed, pimple-faced man, with his hair 
standing upright all over his head ; and as he 


stood with one arm a-kimbo, holding up the 
glass to the light w r ith the other hand, he. 
looked quite friendly. 

“ There was a gentleman here yesterday,” 
he said—“ a stout gentleman, by the name of 
Topsawyer—perhaps you know him ? ” 

‘ No,” I said, “ I don’t think-” 

“ In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed 
hat, grey coat, speckled choker,” said the 
waiter. 

“ N o,” I said, bashfully, “ I haven’t the 
pleasure-” 

“ He came in here,” said the waiter, look¬ 
ing at the light through the tumbler, “ ordered 
a glass of this ale— ivould order it—I told him 
not—drank it, and fell dead. It was too old 
for him. It oughtn’t to be drawn ; that’s the 
fact.” 

I was very much shocked to hear of this 
melancholy accident, and said I thought I had 
better have some water. 

“ Why, you see,” said the waiter, still look¬ 
ing at the light through the tumbler, with one 
of his eyes shut up, “ our people don’t like 
things being ordered and left. It offends ’em. 
But /’ll drink it, if you like. I’m used to it, 
and use is everything. I don’t think it’ll hurt 
me, if I throw my head back, and take it off 
quick. Shall I?” 

I replied that he would much oblige me by 
drinking it, if he thought he could do it safely, 
but by no means otherwise. When he did 
throw his head back, and take it off quick, I 
had a horrible fear, I confess, of seeing him 
meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, 
and fall lifeless on the carpet. But it didn’t 
hurt him. On the contrary, I thought he 
seemed the fresher for it. 

“ What have we got here ? ” he said, put¬ 
ting a fork into my dish. “ Not chops? ” 

“ Chops,” I said. 

“ Bless my soul! ” he exclaimed. “ I didn’t 
know they were chops. Why a chop’s the 
very thing to take off the bad effects of that 
beer! Ain’t it lucky ? ” 

So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, 
and a potato in the other, and ate away with 
a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfac¬ 
tion. He afterwards took another chop and 
r ther potato; and after that another chop 





CHARLES DICKENS. 


518 


and another potato. When we had done, he 
brought me a pudding, and having set it before 
me, seemed to ruminate, and to become absent 
in his mind for some moments. “ How’s the 
pie ? ” he said, rousing himself. 

“ It’s pudding,” I made answer. 

“Pudding!” he exclaimed. “Why bless 
me, so it is! What! ” looking at it nearer. 
“You don’t mean to say it’s a batter-pudding ? ” 

“ Yes, it is indeed.” 

“ Why, a batter pudding,” he said, taking 
up a tablespoon, “is my favorite pudding! 
Ain’t that lucky? Come on, little ’un, and 
let’s see who’ll get most.” 

The waiter certainly got most. He en¬ 
treated me more than once to come in and 
win, but what with his tablespoon to my tea¬ 
spoon, his dispatch to my dispatch, and his 
appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind 
at the first mouthful, and had no chance with 
him. I never saw anyone enjoy a pudding so 
much, I think; aud he laughed, when it was 
all gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still. 

Finding him so very friendly aud com¬ 
panionable, it was then that I asked for the 
pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggotty. 
He not only brought it immediately, but was 
good enough to look over me while I wrote 
the letter. When I had finished it, he asked 
me where I was going to school. 

I said, “Near London,” which was all I 
knew. 

“ Oh, my eye! ” he said, looking very low- 
spirited, “ I am sorry for that.” 

“ Why ? ” I asked him. 

“ Oh ! ” he said, shaking his head, “ that’s 
the school where they broke the boy’s ribs— 
two ribs—a little boy he was. I should say 
he was—let me see—how old are you, about ? ” 

I told him between eight and nine. 

“That’s just his age,” he said. “He was 
eight years and six months old when they 
broke his first rib; eight years and eight 
months old when they broke his second, and 
did for him.” 

I could not disguise from myself, or from 
the waiter, that this was an uncomfortable 
coincidence, and inquired how it was done. 
His answer was not cheering to my spirits, 
for it consisted of two dismal words, “ With 
whopping.” 

33 


The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard 
was a seasonable diversion, which made me get 
up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled 
pride and diffidence of having a purse (which 
I took out of my pocket), if there were any¬ 
thing to pay. 

“ There’s a sheet of letter-paper,” he re¬ 
turned. “ Did you ever buy a sheet of letter- 
paper? ” 

I could not remember that I ever had. 

“ Its dear,” he said, “ on account of the 
duty. Threepence. That’s the way we’re 
taxed in this country. There’s nothing else, 
except the waiter. Never mind the ink. I 
lose by that.” 

“What should you—what should I—how 
much ought I to—what would it be right to 
pay the waiter, if you please ? ” I stammered, 
b'ushing. 

“ If I hadn’t a family, and that family 
hadn’t the cowpock,” said the waiter, “ I 
wouldn’t take a sixpence. If I didn’t sup¬ 
port a aged pairint and a lovely sister ”—here 
the waiter was greatly agitated—“ I wouldn’t 
take a farthing. If I had a good place, aud 
was treated well here, I should beg acceptance 
of a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live 
on broken wittles, and I sleep on the «oals ” 
—here the waiter burst into tears. 

I was very much concerned for his misfor¬ 
tunes, and felt that any recognition short of 
ninepence would be mere brutality and hard¬ 
ness of heart. Therefore I gave him one of 
my three bright shillings, which he received 
with much humility and veneration, and spun 
up with his thumb, directly afterward?, to try 
the goodness of. 

It was a little disconcerting to me to find, 
when I was being helped up behind the coach, 
that I Avas supposed to have eaten all the 
dinner Avithuut any assistance. I discovered 
this from overhearing the lady in the bow- 
Avindow say to the guard, “Take care of that 
child, George, or he’ll burst! ” and from 
observing that the Avomen servants who were 
about the place came out to look and giggle 
at me as a young phenomenon. My unfortu¬ 
nate friend the Avaiter, who had quite re¬ 
covered his spirits, did not appear to be dis¬ 
turbed by this, but joined in the general 



514 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


admiration without being at all confused. If 
I had any doubt of him, I suppose this half- 
awakened it; but I am inclined to believe 
that with the simple confidence of a child, 
and the natural reliance of a child upon 


superior years (qualities I am very sorry 
any children should prematurely change for 
worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of 
him on the whole, even then. 


PLEA OF SERGEANT BUZFUZ, IN “BARDELL VERSUS PICKWICK.” 

FROM “PICKWICK PAPERS.” 


T HE plaintiff, gentlemen, the plaintiff is a 
widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The 
late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying for many 
years, the esteem and confidence of his sover¬ 
eign, as one of the guardians of his royal 
revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from 
the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose 
and peace which a custom-house can never 
afford. Some time before his death he had 
stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With 
this little boy, the only pledge of her departed 
exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, 
and courted the retirement and tranquility 
of Goswell street; and here she placed in her 
front parlor window a written placard, bear¬ 
ing this inscription—“ Apartments furnished 
for a single gentleman. Inquire within.” I 
entreat the attention of the jury to the word¬ 
ing of this document—“ Apartments furnished 
for a siugle gentleman ! ” Mrs. Bard ell’s 
opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were 
derived from a long contemplation of the 
inestimable qualities of her lost husband. 
She had no fear—she had no distrust—she 
had no suspicion—all was confidence and re¬ 
liance. 

“ Mr. Bardell,” said the widow; “ Mr. 
Bardell was a man of honor—Mr. Bardell 
was a man of his word—Mr. Bardell was no 
deceiver—Mr. Bardell was once a single gen¬ 
tleman himself; to single gentlemen I look 
for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and 
for consolation—in single gentlemen I shall 
perpetually see something to remind me of 
what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my 
young and untried affeclions; to a single gen¬ 
tleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.” 
Actuated by this beautiful and touching im¬ 
pulse (among the best impulses of our imper¬ 
fect nature, gentlemen), the lonely and deso¬ 


late widow dried her tears, furnished her first 
floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal 
bosom, and put the bill up in her parlor 
window. Did it remain there long? No. 
The serpent was on the watch, the train was 
laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and 
miner was at work. 

Before the bill had been in the parlor 
window three days—three days, gentlemen— 
a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all 
the outward semblance of a man, and not of 
a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bar- 
dell’s house. He inquired within; he took 
the lodgings; and on the very next day he 
entered into possession of them. This man 
was Pickwick—Pickwick, the defendant. 

Of this man Pickwick I will say little; 
the subject presents but few attractions; and 
I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, 
gentlemen, the men to delight in the contem¬ 
plation of revolting heartlessness and sys¬ 
tematic villany. I say systematic villany, 
gentlemen, and when I say systematic villany, 
let me tell the defendant, Pickwick, if he be 
in court, as I am informed he is, that it would 
have been more decent in him, more becom¬ 
ing, in better judgment, and in better taste, if 
he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gen¬ 
tlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disap¬ 
probation in which he may indulge in this 
court will not go down with you; that you 
will know how to value and how to appre¬ 
ciate them; and let me tell him further, as 
my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a 
counsel, in his discharge of his duty to his 
client, is neither to be intimidated, nor bullied, 
nor put down ; and that any attempt_to_do 
either the one or the other, or the first or the 
last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, 
be he plaintiff, or be he defendant, be his 






CHARLES DICKENS. 


515 


name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or 
Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson. 

I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two 
years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, 
and without interruption or intermission, at 
Mrs. Bardell’s house. I shall show you that 
Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, 
waited on him, attended to his comforts, 
cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the 
washer-woman, when it went abroad, darned, 
aired, and prepared it for wear when it came 
home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust 
and confidence. 


I shall show you that, on many occasions, 
he gave half-pence, and on some occasions 
even sixpence, to her little boy; and shall 
prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it 
will be impossible for my learned friend to 
weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he 
patted the boy on the head, and after inquir¬ 
ing whether he had won any alley tors or 
commoneys lately (both of which I under¬ 
stand to be species of marbles much prized by 
the youth of this town), made use of this 
remarkable expression—“ How would you 
like to have another father ? ” 


THE IV" 

O H! a dainty plant is the ivy green, 

That creepeth o’er ruins old! 

On right choice food are his meals, I 
ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed. 
To pleasure his dainty whim ; 

And the mouldering dust that years have 
made, 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 

A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings, 
And a staunch old heart has he ; 

How closely he twineth, how close he clings, 

To his friend the huge oak tree! 


GREEN. 

And slily he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves he gently waves, 

As he joyously hugs and crawleth round 
The rich mould of dead men’s graves. 
Creeping where grim death has been, 

A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 
And nations have scattered been ; 

But the stout old ivy shall never fade 
From its hale and hearty green. 

The brave old plant in its lonely days 
Shall fatten on the past: 

For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the ivy’s food at last. 

Creeping on where time has been, 

A rare old plant is the ivy green! 








Thomas Moore. 

The “ Bard of Erin.” 


HE “ Bard of Erin,” Ireland’s sweetest singer, famous as the 
author of “ The Last Rose of Summer,” and many other 
delightful lyrics, was born in Dublin, May 28, 1779, and was 
educated at Trinity College. He first attracted public atten¬ 
tion by his translation of Anacreon in 1800, and he achieved 
his first great success by the publication of his “ Irish Melo¬ 
dies,” which brought him $2,500 per annum. He was married to an 
actress, Bessy Dyke, shortly before the publication, in 1817, of “ Lalla 
Rookh,” a poem which created a sensation at the time and upon which 
his fame chiefly rests. 

Moore at this time was clerk of the admiralty court of Bermuda, 
although living in England. His deputy embezzled $30,000 and Moore 
fled to Italy to avoid arrest. He returned to England soon, however, and 
in 1835 was granted a pension of $1,500. He died February 25, 1852. 
His last days were shadowed by the death of his two sons and by his 
own mental weakness. His “ History of Ireland ” was his chief prose 
work, although a number of his lampoons and short comic sketches were 
very successful. In 1803-4 he visited America and was cordially received. 
His “ Memoirs, Journals and Correspondence ” were published by Earl 
Russell in 1853-56. 

From another biographical sketch of the poet we extract the following: 

“ ‘ The Bard of Erin ’ was the son of a Catholic grocer. He was sent 
to the same school where Sheridan was educated and where he himself 
became ‘ a determined rhymer.’ After studying at Trinity College, he 
went to London and in 1800 published a translation of ‘ Anacreon,’ which 
he dedicated to the Prince of Wales, his patron then, but the butt of his 
satire afterward. It proved a great hit, and, with his musical talent, 
opened his way into the best society. 

“ He published ‘Odes and Epistles ’ in 1806, and from 1807 to 1834 
produced his popular ‘ Irish Melodies,’ which have given him a place 
among the first English poets and superior to any other in his native 



THOMAS MOORE. 


517 


land. His most elaborate work is ‘ Lalla Rookh,’ for wbicb he received 
$15,000. This poem has been one of the most popular written by any 
modern author. Various other works in prose and poetry were well 
received. His best productions, however, are his lyrics, love songs breath¬ 
ing the most ardent passion, many of which are familiar to the general 
public. As a graceful versifier and writer of poetry which has the ring 
of perpetual music in it, Moore is unexcelled. He was a great social 
favorite, enjoying the friendship of Byron and other celebrities.” 


’TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 


? r T' , IS the last rose of summer 
Left blooming alone; 

All her lovely companions 
Are faded and gone ; 

No flower of her kindred, 

No rosebud is nigh, 

To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh! 

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, 
To pine on the stem; 

Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go, sleep thou with them. 


Thus kindly I scatter 
Thy leaves o’er the bed 
Where thy mates of the garden 
Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow, 

When friendship’s decay, 
And from love’s shining circle 
The gems drop away! 

When true hearts lie withered. 
And fond ones are flown. 

Oh ! who would inhabit 
This bleak world alone ? 


WHEN FIRST 

HEN first I met thee, warm and young, 
There shone such truth about thee, 
And on thy lip such promise hung, 
I did not dare to doubt thee. 

I saw thee change, yet still relied, 

Still clung with hope the fonder, 

And thought, though false to all beside, 

From me thou could’st not wander. 

But go, deceiver! go : 

The heart, whose hopes could make it 
Trust one so false, so low, 

Deserves that thou shouldst break it. 

When every tongue thy follies named, 

I fled the unwelcome story; 

Or found, in e’en the faults they blamed, 

Some gleams of future glory. 

I still was true, when nearer friends 
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee; 


I MET THEE. 

The heart that now thy falsehood rends 
Would then have bled to right thee. 

But go, deceiver! go— 

Some day, perhaps, thou’lt waken 
From pleasure’s dream, to know 
The grief of hearts forsaken. 

E’en now, though youth its bloom has shed, 
No lights of age adorn thee: 

The few who loved thee once, have fled, 
And they who flatter, scorn thee. 

Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, 

No genial ties enwreathe it; 

The smiling there, like light on graves, 

Has rank cold hearts beneath it. 

Go—go—though worlds were thine, 

I would not now surrender 
One taintless tear of mine 
For all thy guilty splendor! 







THOMAS MOORE. 


518 

And days may come, thou false one! yet, 
When e’en those ties shall sever; 
When thou wilt call, with vain regret, 
On her thou’st lost forever; 

On her who, in thy fortune’s fall, 

With smiles had still received thee, 


And gladly died to prove thee all 
Her fancy first believed thee. 

Go-go—’tis vain to curse, 

’Tis weakness to upbraid thee; 

Hate cannot wish thee worse 

Than guilt and shame have made thee. 


COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 


C OME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken 
dear, 

Though the herd have fled from thee, 
thy home is still here, 

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’er- 
cast, 

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the fast. 

Oh! what was love made for, if’tis not the same 
Through joy and through torment, through 
glory and shame ? 


I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart, 

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou 
art. 

Thou hast called me thy angel in moments of 
bliss, 

And thy angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this— 

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps 
to pursue, 

And shield thee, and save thee—or perish 
there too! 


THOSE EVENING BELLS. 


T HOSE evening bells! those evening bells! 
How many a tale their music tells 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime! 

Those joyous hours are passed away ; 

And many a heart that then was gay, 


Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 

And hears no more those evening bells 

And so ’twill be when I am gone— 

That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 

While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 


GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE ! 


G O where glory waits thee: 
But, while fame elates thee, 
O still remember me! 
When the praise thou meetest 
To thine ear is sweetest, 

O then remember me! 

Other arms may press thee 
Dearer friends caress thee— 
All the joys that bless thee 
Sweeter far may be; 

But when friends are nearest, 
And when joys are dearest, 

O then remember me! 


When, at eve, thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest, 

O then remember me! 
Think when home returning, 
Bright we’ve seen it burning, 
O, thus remember me! 

Oft as summer closes, 

When thine eye reposes 
On its lingering roses, 

Once so loved by thee, 
Think of her who wove them, 
Her who made thee love them 
O then remember me! 









THOMAS MOORE. 


519 


When, around thee dying, 
Autumn leaves are lying, 

O then remember me! 
And, at night, when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing, 
O, still remember me! 


Then should music, stealing 
All the soul of feeling, 

To thy heart appealing, 

Draw one tear from thee— 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee; 

O then remember me! 


THE LIGHT OF 

O FT in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me ; 

The smiles, the tears, 

Of boyhood’s years, 

The words of love then spoken; 

The eyes that shone, 

Now dimmed and gone, 

The cheerful hearts now broken! 
Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light. 

Of other days around me. 


OTHER DAYS. 

When I remember all 

The friends, so linked together, 

I’ve seen around me fall, 

Like leaves in wintry w r eather, 

I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet hall deserted, 

Whose lights are fled, 

Whose garlands dead, 

And all but he departed! 

Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of others days around me. 


THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT TO MEMORY DEAR. 


WEETHEART, goodbye! Thatflut’ring 
sail 

Is spread to waft me far from thee; 

And soon, before the farth’ring gale 
My ship shall bound upon the sea. 
Perchance, all des’late and forlorn, 

These eyes shall miss thee many a year; 
But unforgotten every charm— 

Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 


Sweetheart, good bye! one last embrace ! 

Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever! 

Yet in this heart’s most sacred place 
Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever; 
And still shall recollection trace, 

In fancy’s mirror, ever near, 

Each smile, each tear, that form, that face,- 
Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 


PALESTINE. 


N OW, upon Syria’s land of roses 
Softly the light of eve reposes, 
And, like a glory, the broad sun 
Hangs over sainted Lebanon, 

Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, 
And whitens with eternal sleet, 
While summer, in a vale of flowers. 

Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 


To one who looked from upper air 
O’er all the enchanted regions there, 
How beauteous must have been the glow, 
The life, how sparkling from below ! 

Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
Of golden melons on their banks 
More golden where the sunlight falls; 
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls 









520 


THOMAS MOORE. 


Of ruined shrines, busy and bright 
As they were all alive with light; 

Aud, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, 

With their rich restless w r ings, that gleam 
Variously in the crimson beam 
Of the warm west—as if inlaid 
With brilliants from the mine, or made 


Of tearless rainbows, such as span 
The unclouded skies of Peristan ! 

And then, the mingling sounds that come 
Of shepherd’s ancient reed, with hum 
Of the wild bees of Palestine, 

Banqueting, through the flowery vales;— 
Aud, Jordan, those sweet banks of tbine, 
And woods, so full of nightingales! 


THE HOME OF PEACE. 


I KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully 
curled 

Above the green elms, that a cottage was 
near, 

And I said, “If there’s peace to be found 
in the world, 

A heart that is humble might hope for it 
here! ” 

It was noon, and on flowers that languished 
around 

In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
Every leaf was at rest, and 1 heard not a 
sound 

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow 
beech-tree. 


And “ Here in this lone little wood,” I ex¬ 
claimed, 

“ With a maid who was lovely to soul and 
to eye, 

Who would blush when I praised her, and 
weep if I blamed, 

How blest could I live, and how calm 
could I die! 

“ By the shade of yon sumach, whose red 
berry dips 

In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to 
recline, 

And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, 

Which had never been sighed on by any 
but mine! ” 


SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. 


S UBLIME w T as the warning that liberty 
spoke, 

And grand w 7 as the moment when Span¬ 
iards awoke 

Into life and revenge from the conqueror’s 
chain. 

Oh, liberty! let not this spirit have rest, 

Till it move, like a breeze, o’er the waves of 
the west— 

Give the light of your look to each sorrowing 
spot, 

Nor, oh, be the shamrock of Erin forgot 
While you add to your garland the olive of 
Spain! 

If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with 
their rights, 

Give to country its charm, aud to home its 
delights, 

If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, 


I Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same! 
j And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name, 

| Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, 

Than to turn his last sigh into victory’s breath, 
For the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain! 

Ye Blakes and O’Donnels, whose fathers re¬ 
signed 

The green hills of their youth, among strangers 
to find 

That repose which, at home, they had sighed 
for in vain, 

Join, join in our hope that the flame, which 
you light, 

May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright, 

And forgive even Albion while blushing she 
draws, 

Like a truant, her sword, in the long-sligh‘.< d 
cause 

j Of the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain! 








THOMAS MOORE- 


God prosper the cause!—oh, it cannot but 
thrive, 

While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive, 
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to main¬ 
tain ; 

Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will 
die! 


521 

[ The finger of glory shall point where they 
lie; 

While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, 
The young spirit of freedom shall shelter their 
grave 

Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of 
Spain! 


THE LIFE-BOAT. 


? 'T'IS sweet to behold, when the billows are 
sleeping, 

Some gay-colored bark moving grace¬ 
fully by ; 

No damp on her deck but the even-tide’s 
weeping, 

No breath in her sails but the summer- 
wind’s sigh. 

Yetwho wouldnotturn, with a fonder emotion, 
To gaze on the life-boat, though rugged and 
worn, 


Which often hath wafted, o’er hills of the 
ocean, 

The lost light of hope to the seaman for¬ 
lorn! 

Oh! grant that of those who in life’s sunny 
slumber 

Around us like summer-barks idly have 
played, 

When storms are abroad we may find in the 
number 

One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid. 


BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS. 


B ELIEVE me, if all those endearing young j 
charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in 
Like fairy-gifts fading away, [my arms, 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment 
thou art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart | 
Would entwine itself verdant still. 


It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 

That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, 
To which time will but make thee more 
dear; 

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
But as truly loves on to the close, 

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he 
sets, 

The same look which she turned when he rose. 


OH! ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE. 


O H! Arranmore, loved Arraumore, 

How oft I dream of thee, 

And of those days when, by thy shore, 
I wandered young and free. 

Full many a path I’ve tried, since then, 
Through pleasure’s flowery maze, 

But ne’er could find the bliss again 
I felt in those sweet days. 

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs 
At sunny morn I’ve stood, 

With heart as bounding as the skiffs 
That danced along thy flood ; 


Or, when the western wave grew bright 
With daylight’s parting wing, 

Have sought that Eden in its light 
Which dreaming poets sing. 

That Eden where th’ immortal brave 
Dwell in a land serene— 

Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, 
At sunset, oft are seen. 

Ah dream too full of sadd’ning truth ! 

Those mansions o’er the main 
Are like the hopes I built in youth— 

As sunny and as vain. 









522 


THOMAS MOORE. 


THE LIGHT HOUSE. 


T HE scene was more beautiful far to the eye, 
Than if clay in its pride had arrayed it; 
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure- 
arched sky 

Looked pure as the spirit that made it: 

The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 
On the shadowy waves’ playful motion, 
From the dim distant hill, ’till the light-house 
fire blazed 

Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 

No longer the joy of the sailor-boy s breast 
Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers; 
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled 
nest, 

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers: 


One moment I looked from the hill’s gentle 
slope, 

All hushed was the billows’ commotion, 
And o’er them the light-house looked lovely 
as hope— 

That star of life’s tremulous ocean. 

The time is long past, and the scene is afar, 
Yet when my head rests on its pillow, 

Will memory sometimes rekindle the star, 
That blazed on the breast of the billow; 

In life’s closing hour, when the trembling soul 
flies, 

And death stills the heart’s last emotion ; 
Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise. 

Like a star on eternity’s ocean! 


THE SCENTED VASE. 


F AREWELL! but whenever you welcome 
the hour 

That awakens the night-song of mirth 
in your bower, 

Then think of the friend who once welcomed 
it too, 

And forgot his own grief to be happy with 
you. 

His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened the pathway 
of pain, 

But he ne’er will forget the short vision that 
threw 

Its enchantment around him, while lingering 
with you. 


Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot 
destroy; 

Which come in the night-time of sorrow and 
care, 

And bring back the features that joy used to 
wear; 

Long, long be my heart with such memories 
filled! 

Like the vase, in which roses have once been 
distilled, 

You may break, you may shatter the vase if 
you will, 

But the scent of the roses will cling round it 
still. 


WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE. 


W HEN he, who adores thee, has left but 
the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken 
the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resigned ? 

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 
Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 
I have been but too faithful to thee. 


With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; 

Every thought of my reason was thine ; 

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, 
Thy name shall be mingled with mine. 

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall 
live 

The days of thy glory to see ; 

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven 
can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 








THOMAS MOORE. 


523 


WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. 


HE. 

HAT the bee is to tlie floweret, 

When he looks for honey-dew, 
Through the leaves that close embower 
That, my love, I’ll he to you. [it, 

SHE. 

What the bank, with verdure glowing, 

Is to waves that wander near, 
Whispering kisses, while they’re going, 
That I’ll he to you, my dear. 


SHE. 

But they say, the bee’s a rover 

Who will fly, when sweets are gone ; 
And, when once the kiss is over, 

Faithless brooks will wander on. 

HE. 

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, 

If sunny banks will wear away. 

’Tis but right, that bees and brooks 

Should sip and kiss them, while they may. 



BLACK AND 

HE brilliant black eye 

May in triumph let fly 
All its darts without caring who feels 
’em; 

But the soft eye of blue, 

Though it scatter wounds too, 

Is much better pleased when it heals ’em! 
Dear Fanny! 

The black eye may say, 

“ Come and worship my ray ; 

By adoring, perhaps you may move me ! ” 


BLUE EYES. 

But the blue eye, half hid, 

Says, from under its lid, 

“ I love, and am yours, if you love me! ” 
Dear Fanny! 

Then tell me, O why, 

In that lovely blue eye, 

Not a charm of its tint I discover; 

Or why should you wear 
The only blue pair 
That ever said “ No ” to a lover? 

Dear Fanny! 



A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. 

But when the wind blows off the shore 


F AINTLY as tolls the evening chime, 

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep 
time. 

Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 

We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn. 
Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast. 

The rapids are near, and the daylight’s 
past! 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 


O, sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar! 

Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past! 

Utawa’s tide! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 

Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers,— 

O, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs! 
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past! 







Sir Walter Scott. 

Novelist and Poet. 


IR WALTER SCOTT, baronet, tbe eldest son of Walter Scott, 
was born in the city of Edinburgh, Scotland, August 15, 1771. 
It is proper to remark that his mother was a lady of talent, the 
friend of Burns and Ramsay, and the author of some merito¬ 
rious verses. Sir Walter was educated at the high school of 
Edinburgh, and at the university. At an early age, he was 
celebrated as a story-teller, “ when the applause of his companions was 
his recompense for the disgrace and punishments which the future 
romance-writer incurred by being idle himself, and keeping others idle, 
during hours that should have been employed on their tasks.” 

Sir Walter Scott’s account of his birth and circumstances is charac¬ 
terized by his usual modesty: “ My birth, without giving the least 
pretension to distinction, was that of a gentleman, and connected me with 
several respectable families and accomplished persons. My education 
had been a good one, although I was deprived of its full benefit by indif¬ 
ferent health, just at the period when I ought to have been most sedulous 
in improving it.” 

Having married, he resided at Ashiesteel, a delightful retirement, in 
an uncommonly beautiful situation, by the side of a fine river, whose 
streams were favorable for angling, and surrounded by hills abounding 
in game. His “ Lay of the Last Minstrel,” and “ Marmion,” poems of 
great originality and beauty, were produced in 1805 an d 1808, and 
received at once into favor. 

The “ Lady of the Lake ” was published in 1810. Speaking of this 
poem, the author remarks: “ I remember that about the same time a 
friend started in to ‘ heeze up my hope,’ like the minstrel in the old song. 
He was bred a farmer, but a man of powerful understanding, natural 
good taste, and warm poetical feeling, perfectly competent to supply the 
wants of an imperfect or irregular education. He was a passionate 
admirer of field sports, which we often pursued together. 

“ As this friend happened to dine with me at Ashiesteel one day, I 

524 





SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


525 


took the opportunity of reading to him the first canto of the ‘ Lady of the 
Lake/ in order to ascertain the effect the poem was likely to produce 
upon a person who was but too favorable a representative of readers at 
large. It is, of course, to be supposed, that I determined rather to guide 
my opinion by what my friend might appear to feel, than by what he 
might think fit to say. 

“ His reception of my recitation, or prelection, was rather singular. 
He placed his hand across his brow, and listened with great attention 
through the whole account of the stag hunt, till the dogs threw them¬ 
selves into the lake to follow their master, who embarks with Ellen 
Douglas. He then started up with a sudden exclamation, struck his 
hand on the table, and declared, in a voice of censure calculated for the 
occasion, that the dogs must have been totally ruined by being permitted 
to take the water after such a severe chase. I own I was much encour¬ 
aged by the species of reverie which had possessed so zealous a follower 
of the sports as this ancient Nimrod, who had been completely surprised 
out of all doubts of the reality of the tale.” 

The i{ Lady of the Lake ” was followed by the ‘‘ Vision of Don 
Roderick,” “ Rokeby,” “ Lord of the Isles,” “ Harold the Dauntless,” 
and the “ Bridal of Triermain.” 

“ Waverly, or ’Tis Sixty Years Since,” a novel published in 1814, 
established the reputation of the author, and was followed in rapid succes¬ 
sion by many others. The authorship was acknowledged by Sir Walter 
Scott, at a public dinner in 1827. These Waverly novels exhibit a pro¬ 
found knowledge of human nature, an intimate acquaintance with history, 
national traditions, and manners, and a most surprising versatility. 
“ Ivanhoe,” which appeared in 1820, without being the most finished of 
his works, presents the learning and powers of its author in a striking 
light. 

Never were the long gathered stores of most extensive erudition 
applied to the purposes of imaginative genius with so much easy, lavish, 
and luxurious power—never was the illusion of fancy so complete—made 
up of so many minute elements,—and yet producing such entireness of 
effect. It is as if the veil of ages had been, in truth, swept back, and we 
ourselves had been, for a time, living, breathing, and moving in the days 
of Cceur de Lion—days how different from our own! the hot, tempes¬ 
tuous, chivalrous, passionate, fierce youth of Christendom. 

Every line in the picture is true to the life—everything in the 


526 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


words, in the gesture—everything in the very faces of the personages 
called up before us, speaks of times of energetic volition—uncontrolled 
action, disturbance, tumult—the storms and whirlwinds of restless souls 
and ungoverned passions. It seems as if the atmosphere around them 
were all alive with the breath of trumpets, and the neighing of chargers, 
and the echo of war-cries. And yet, with a true and beautiful skilfulness, 
the author has rested the main interest of his story, not upon these fiery 
externals, in themselves so full of attraction, and every way so charac¬ 
teristic of the age to which the story refers, but on the workings of that 
most poetical of passions which is ever deepest where it is most calm, 
quiet, and delicate, and which, less than any other is changed, even in its 
modes of manifestation, in conformity with the changes of time, manners, 
and circumstances. 

For the true interest of this romance of the days of Richard is placed 
neither in Richard himself, nor in the Knight of Ivanhoe, the nominal 
hero; nor in any of the haughty Templars or barpns who occupy along 
with them, the front of the scene, but in the still, devoted, sad, and unre¬ 
quited tenderness of a Jewish damsel—by far the most fine, and at the 
same time most romantic creation of female character the author has ever 
formed—and second, we suspect, to none that is to be found in the whole 
annals of poetry and romance. 

Besides writing his novels, Sir Walter Scott edited various works, 
and produced some volumes of history, and a life of “ Napoleon Bona¬ 
parte,” to which, however, his party prejudices and hurried composition 
prevented him from doing justice. The failure of his bookseller, an 
unforeseen misfortune, darkened the close of Sir Walter’s life by pecu¬ 
niary embarrassment. His health suffered by the assiduity with which 
he labored to relieve his fortunes. Shocks of paralysis warned him of his 
approaching fate, and, after having travelled without benefit to his health, 
this truly great and good man died at his seat at Abbotsford, in the year 
1832. 

The very name of Sir Walter Scott strikes a responsive chord in 
almost every breast, for few are the persons who have not been charmed 
and delighted with the “ Waverly Novels ” and his sprightly, spirited 
poems. His name is the chief ornament of Scottish literature, and such 
is the character of his works that they can perish only with the language. 
In accuracy of historic description, in throwing over his writings an air 
of charming romance, in skilful weaving of the plot, and in photograph- 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


527 


ing the various characters so that the reader almost imagines he sees 
them before his eyes, Scott may be said to be without a rival. His works 
have had a phenomenal popularity. 

Of delicate health in early life, he slowly advanced to a sturdy man¬ 
hood, and became distinguished as an author at a period comparatively 
late. Perhaps no other author ever wrote so much when past the age of 
fifty-five. It is honorable to the memory of Scott that a large amount of 
his literary work was undertaken and carried forward for the purpose of 
meeting a pecuniary obligation. “ Waverly ” took the world by storm, 
and Scott who did not acknowledge the authorship, might well suppose 
he had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. 

As a writer it is a truism to say that, since Shakespeare, whom he 
resembled in many ways, there has never been a genius so human and so 
creative, so rich in humor, sympathy, poetry, so fertile in the production 
of new' and real characters, as the genius of Sir Walter Scott. “ The Lay 
of the Last Minstrel,” and “ The Lady of the Lake,” hold high rank in 
the realm of poetry and are full of life and spirit. They are colored by 
the romance of Scottish history and Scottish scenery. For a long time 
Scott resided at Abbotsford, a few miles from Edinburgh, which was one 
of the famous places to visit by all tourists in Scotland. 


“BREATHES THERE THE MAN.” 


B REATHES there the man with soul so 
dead 

Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ! 

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned 
From wanderiug on a foreign strand! 

If such there breathe, go mark him well; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 


High though his titles, proud his name, 

' Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 

The wretch, concentrated all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 

And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 


BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 


T HE English shafts in volleys hailed, 

In headlong charge their horse assailed; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons 
swept, 

To break the Scottish circle deep, 

That fought around their King. 

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 


Though charging knights like whirlwinds go 
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, 
Unbroken was the ring; 

The stubborn spearsmen still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood, 

Each stepping where his comrade stood, 

The instant that be fell. 






528 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


No thought was there of dastard flight; 
Linked in the serried phalanx tight, 

Groom fought like noble, squire like knight. 
As fearlessly and well; 

Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O’er their thin host and wounded king. 

Then skilful Surrey’s sage commands 
Led back from strife his shattered bands; 

As from the charge they drew, 

As mountain-waves from wasted lands, 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 

Then did their loss his foemen know; 

Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low, 
They melted from the field, as snow, 

When streams are swoln and south winds blow, 


Dissolves in silent dew. 

Tweed’s echoes heard the ceaseless plash, 
While many a broken band, 

Disordered, through her currents dash, 
To gain the Scottish land ; 

To town and tower, to down and dale, 

To tell red Floddeu’s dismal tale, 

And raise the universal wail. 

Tradition, legend, tune and song, 

Shall many an age that wail prolong. 

Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, 

Of Flodden’s fatal field, 

Where shivered was fair Scotland’s spear, 
And broken was her shield! 


CHRISTMAS IN 

EAP on more wood !—the wind is chill; 
But let it whistle as it will, 

We’ll keep our Christmas merry still. 
Each age has deemed the new-born year 
The fittest time for festal cheer: 

Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane 
At Iol more deep the mead did drain ; 

High on the beach his galleys drew, 

And feasted all his pirate crew; 

Then in his low and pine-built hall, 

Where shields and axes decked the wall, 
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer ; 
Caroused in seas of sable beer; 

While round, in brutal jest, were thrown 
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone, 

Or listened all, in grim delight, 

While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. 
Then forth in frenzy would they hie, 

While wildly loose their red locks fly, 

And dancing round the blazing pile 
They make such barbarous mirth the while, 
As best might to the mind recall 
The boisterous joys of Odin’s hall. 

And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year its course had rolled, 
And brought blithe Christmas back again, j 
With all its hospitable train. 

Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honor to the holy night; 


r OLDEN TIME. 

On Christmas eve the bells were rung; 
On Christmas eve the mass was sung; 
That only night in all the year, 

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 

The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; 

The hall was dressed with holly green ; 
Forth to the wood did merry men go, 

To gather in the mistletoe, 

Then open wide the baron’s hall 
To vassel, tenant, serf, and all. 

Power laid his rod of rule aside, 

And Ceremony doffed his pride : 

The heir, with roses in his shoes, 

That night might village partner choose ; 

The lord, underogating, share 

The vulgar game of “post and pair.” 

All hailed with uncontrolled delight 
And general voice the happy night 
That to the cottage, as the crown, 
Brought tidings of salvation down, 

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 
Went roaring up the chimney wide ; 

The huge hall table’s oaken face, 
Scrubbed till it shone the day to grace, 
Bore then upon its massive board 
No mark to part the squire and lord; 
Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 

By old blue-coated serving-man ; 







SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


529 


Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high, 
Crested with bays and rosemary. 

Well can the green-garbed ranger tell 
How, when, and where the monster fell: 
What dogs before his death he tore, 

And all the baiting of the boar. 

The wassail round, in good brown bowls, 
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. 
There the huge sirloin reeked : hard by 
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie, 
Nor failed old Scotland to produce 
At such high tide, her savory goose. 

Then came the merry maskers in ; 

And carols roared with blithesome din, 


If unmelodious was the song, 

It was a hearty note, and strong. 

Who lists may in their mumming see 
Traces of ancient mystery: 

White skirts supplied the masquerade, 

And smutted cheeks the visors made ; 

But, oh ! what maskers, richly dight, 

Can boast of bosoms half so light ? 

England was merry England, when 
Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest 
ale! 

’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; 

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
The poor man’s heart through half the year. 


SUNSET AT NORHAM CASTLE. 


D AY set on Norham’s castled steep, 

And Tweed’s fair river broad and deep, 
And Cheviot’s mountains lone; 

The battled towers, the donjon keep, 

The loop-hole grates where captives weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep, 

In yellow lustre shone. 

The warriors on the turrets high, 

Moving athwart the evening sky, 

Seemed forms of giant height; 

Their armor, as it caught the rays, 

Flashed back again the western blaze 
In lines of dazzling light. 

St George’s banner, broad and gay, 

Now faded, as the fading ray 
Less bright, and less, was flung; 

The evening gale had scarce the power 
To wave it on the donjon tower, 

So heavily it hung. 

The scouts had parted on their search, 

The castle gates were barred ; 


Above the gloomy portal arch, 

Timing his footsteps to a march. 

The warder kept his guard, 

Low humming, as he paced along, 
Some ancient border-gathering song. 

A distant tramping sounds he hears; 
He looks abroad, and soon appears, 
O’er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears 
Beneath a pennon gay : 

A horseman, darting from the crowd, 
Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
Spurs on his mettled courser proud, 
Before the dark array. 

Beneath the sable palisade, 

That closed the castle barricade, 

His bugle-horn he blew; 

The warder hasted from the wall, 

And warned the captain in the hall, 
For well the blast he knew; 

And joyfully that knight did call 
To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 


ROB ROY’S REPLY TO MR. OSBALDSTONE. 


( L \ T OU speak like a boy,” returned Mac¬ 
Gregor, in a low tone, that growled 
like distant thunder—“ like a boy 
who thinks the auld gnarled oak can be 
twisted as easily as the young sapling. Can 
I forget that I have been branded as an out- 
34 


law,—stigmatized as a traitor,—a price set on 
my head as if I had been a wolf,—my family 
treated as the dam and cubs of the hill-fox, 
whom all may torment, vilify, degrade and 
insult,—the very name which came to me 
from a long and noble line of martial ances- 







530 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


tors, denounced, as if it were a spell to con¬ 
jure up the devil with ? 

“ And they shall find that the name they 
have dared to proscribe—that the name of 
MacGregor is a spell to raise the wild devil 
withal .—They shall hear of my vengeance, 
that would scorn to listen to the story of my 
wrongs—the miserable Highland drover, 
bankrupt, barefooted, —stripped of all, dis¬ 
honored and hunted down, because the avarice 
of others grasped at more -than that poor all 
could pay, shall burst on them in an awful 
change. They that scoffed at the grovelling 
worm, and trod upon him, may cry and howl 
when they see the stoop of the flying and fiery- 
mouthed dragon. 

“ But why do I speak of this ? ” he said, 


sitting down again, and in a calmer tone— 
“ Only ye may cpine it frets my patience, Mr. 
Osbaldstone, to be hunted like an otter, or a 
sealgh, or a salmon upon the shallows, and 
that by my very friends and neighbors; and 
to have as many sword-cuts made and pistols 
flashed at me, as I had this day in the Ford 
of Avondow, would try a saint’s temper, much 
more a Highlander’s, who are not famous for 
that gude gift, as ye may hae heard, Mr. 
Osbaldstone.—But ae things bides wi’ me o’ 
what Nicol said.—I’m vexed for the bairns— 
I’m vexed when I think o’ Hamish and Robert 
living their father’s life.” And yielding to 
despondence on account of his sons, which he 
felt not upon his own, the father rested his 
bead upon his hand. 


BORDER BALLAD. 


M ARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
Why the deil dinna ye march for¬ 
ward in order? 

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the blue Bonnets are bound for the 
Border. 

Many a banner spread, 

Flutters above your head, 

Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready, then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. 


Come from the hills where your hirsels ar 
grazing, 

Come from the glen of the buck and the 
roe; 

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 
Come with the buckler, the lace, and the bow, 
Trumpets are sounding, 

War-steeds are bounding, 

Stand to your arms and march in good order, 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray, 

When the Blue Bonnets come over th e Border 


GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK. 


P IBROCH of Donuil Dhu, 
Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 
Summon Otan Conuil, 
Come away, come away. 

Hark to the summons! 
Come in your war array, 
Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, and 
From mountain so rocky ; 
The war-pipe and pennon 
Are at Inverlocky. 


Come every hill-plaid, and 
True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade, and 
Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter; 
Leave the corpse uninterred, 
The bride at the altar; 

Leave the dear, leave the steer. 

Leave nets and barges; 

Come with your fighting gear, 
Broadswords and targes. 







SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


531 


Come as the winds come when 
Forests are rended ; 

Come as the waves come when 
Navies are stranded ; 

Faster come, faster come, 
Faster and faster, 

Chief, vassal, page and groom, 
Tenant and master. 


Fast they come, fast they come; 

See how they gather! 

Wide wave the eagle plume 
Blended with heather. 

Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
Forward each man set! 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset! 


MARMION AND DOUGLAS. 


N OW far advanced was morning day. 
When Marmion did his troop array 
To Surrey’s camp to ride ; 

He had safe conduct for his band, 

Beneath the royal seal and hand, 

And Douglas gave a guide : 

The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 

Would Clara on her palfrey place, 

And whisper in an undertone, 

“ Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.”— 
The train from out the castle drew, 

But Marmion stopped to bid adieu :— 

“ Though something I might ’plain,” he said, 
“ Of cold respect to stranger guest, 

Sent hither by your King’s behest, 

While in Tantallon’s towel’s I stayed; 

Part we in friendship from your land, 

And, noble Earl, receive my hand.”— 

But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: 

“ My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
Be open, at my Sovereign’s will, 

To each one whom he lists, howe’er 
Unmeet to be the owner’s peer. 

My castles are my King’s alone, 

From turret to foundation stone—- 
The hand of Douglas is his own ; 

And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.” 

Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his very frame for ire, 

And—“ This to me ! ” he said, 

“ An ’twere not for thy hoary beard, 

Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared 
To cleave the Douglas’ head! 

And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 

He, who does England’s message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 

May well, proud Angus, be thy mate;. 


And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 

Here in thy hold, thy vassels near, 

(Nay, never look upon your lord, 

And lay your hands upon your sword), 

I tell thee, thou’rt defied ! 

And if thou said’st I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 

Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou has lied ! ” 

On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage 
O’ercame the ashen hue of age: 

Fierce he broke forth—“ And darest thou then 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his hall ? 

And hopest thou thence unscathed to go ?— 
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! 

Up drawbridge, grooms—what, Warder, ho! 
Let the portcullis fall.”— 

The steed along the draw-bridge flies, 

Just as it trembled on the rise; 

And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 
He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 

And shout of loud defiance pours, 

I And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 

I “Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, ‘ and 
chase! ’ ’ 

But soon he reigned his fury’s pace : 

“ A royal messenger he came, 

Though most unworthy of the name.— 

“ Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 

Old age ne’er cools the Douglas’ blood, 

I thought to slay him where he stood. 

’Tis pity of him too,” he cried : 

“ Bold he can speak, and fairly ride, 

I warrant him a warrior tried.” 

With this, his mandate he recalls, 

And slowly seeks his castle walls. 






William Shakespeare. 

Poet and Dramatist. 


lives in a kingdom by himself. No name in English literature 
carries with it so much meaning, and the works of no other 
author have climbed so high on the ladder of fame. His 
dramas, popular in his own time, have stood the test of ages 
and as works of genius are to-day as sublime and unapproachable 
as they ever have been. Not the unlettered and uncultivated 
appreciate Shakespeare, although he is comprehended by ordinary intelli¬ 
gence. The educated and refined, those who know a thought when they 
read it, and can see a word-picture when it is placed before them, are the 
ones to pay the most devout homage to this unrivalled master of the 
human heart. 

Shakespeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon, England, April 23, 1564. 
We first discover him in early life as an actor in London in 1589, but he 
seems to have taken up authorship at an early period, and his produc¬ 
tions at once became popular among the educated classes of England. 
One after another in quick succession he wrote dramas to the number of 
thirty-seven, the names of which, such as “ Hamlet,” “ Macbeth,” “ Mid¬ 
summer Night’s Dream,” “ The Merchant of Venice,” “ The Taming of 
the Shrew,” etc., are familiar to everybody. 

He retired to his native town in 1610, died in 1616 and was buried 
in the church vaults at Stratford. The old parish register is shown that 
contains the record of his christening. A drinking fountain, presented 
to his town by Mr. George W. Childs, of Philadelphia, in 1887, was a 
fitting testimonial of the admiration felt by Americans for the works of 
the greatest of all dramatists. 

Says one of his biographers : “ Of the incidents of his youth almost 
nothing is known, excepting that he married in his 19th year, and soon 
afterward resorted to London, where he became an actor of repute at the 
Globe and Blackfriars’ theatres. In 1594 lie inaugurated his literary 
career by the publication of his poem ‘ Venus and Adonis,’ and in the 
following year his first published play appeared, the precursor of a suc- 
632 






WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


533 


cession of works which constitute the crowning glory of English dramatic 
literature. 

“Shakespeare enjoyed the favor of Queen Elizabeth and James I., 
and the friendship of Southampton, Raleigh, Ben Johnson, and other of 
the principal of his contemporaries. After realizing an easy fortune by 
his contributions to the stage, he retired to his native town. Shakes¬ 
peare’s tragedies of ‘ Hamlet,’ ‘ Macbeth,’ ‘ Othello,’ ‘ Romeo and 
Juliet,’ and 1 King Lear,’ are wonderful examples of his power of 
expressing the strongest passions of the human soul; while, on the other 
hand, his comedies, particularly ‘ The Merry Wives of Windsor,’ 
‘ Much Ado About Nothing,’ ‘ Twelfth Night,’ k The Taming of the 
Shrew,’ etc., are unsurpassed in the English language. Of his dramas, 
strictly so-called, perhaps the finest are ‘ As You Like It,’ ‘ The Merchant 
of Venice ’ and ‘ The Tempest.’ ” 


IMAGINATION. 

FROM “THE TEMPEST.” 


1 NEVER may believe 

These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. 
Lovers and madmen have such seething 
brains, 

Such shaping fantasies that apprehend 
More than cool reason ever comprehends. 

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet 
Are of imagination all compact: 

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold ;— 


That is the madman : the lover, all as frantic, 
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt. 

The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth 
to heaven; 

And as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen 
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation, and a name. 


ANNE HATHAWAY. 

TO THE IDOL OF MY EYE AND DELIGHT OF MY HEART, ANNE HATHAWAY 


W OULD ye be taught, ye feathered 
throng, [song, 

With love’s sweet notes to grace your 
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, 

Listen to mine Anne Hathaway! 

She hath a way to sing so clear, 

Phoebus might wondering stop to hear. 

To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, 

And nature charm, Anne hath a way; 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway, 

To breathe delight Anne hath a way, 


When Envy’s breath and rancorous tooth 
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, 

And merit to distress betray, 

To sooth the heart Anne hath a way. 

She hath a way to chase despair, 

To heal all grief, to cure all care, 

Turn foulest night to fairest day. 

Thou knowest, fond heart, Anne hath a way; 
She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway; 

To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. 






WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


534 

Talk not of gems, the orient list, 

The diamond, topaz, amethyst, 

The emerald mild, the ruby gay ; 

Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway! 

She hath a way, with her bright eye, 
Their various lustres to defy,— 

The jewels she, and the foil they, 

So sweet to look Anne hath a way; 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway ; 

To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. 


But were it to my fancy given 

To rate her charms, I’d call them heaven ; 

For though a mortal made of clay, 

Angels must love Anne Hathaway ; 

She hath a way so to control, 

To rapture, the imprisoned soul, 

And sweetest heaven on earth display, 
That to be heaven Anne hath a way ; 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway; 

To be heaven’s self Anne hath a way. 


OTHELLO’S DESPAIR. 

FROM “OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.” 


o 


NOW, forever 

Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell 
content! 

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, 
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! 
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill 
trump, 


The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fifej 
The royal banner, and all quality, 

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious 
war! 

And, 0 you mortal engines, whose rude throats 
The immortal Jove’s dread clamors counterfeit. 
Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone ? 


ANTONY’S ORATION OVER THE BODY OF CAESAR. 

FROM “JULIUS CAESAR.” 


F RIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me 
your ears; 

I come to bury Csesar, not to praise him, 
The evil that men do lives after them ; 

The good is oft interred with their bones ; 

So let it be with Csesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you Csesar was ambitious: 

If it was so, it was a grievous fault; 

And grievously hath Csesar answered it. 

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, 
(For Brutus is an honorable man ; 

So are they all, all honorable men), 

Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me: 
But Brutus says he was ambitious; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: 
Did this in Csesar seem ambitious ? 

When that the poor have cried, Csesar hath 

wept: 

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: 


Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

You all did see that on the Lupercal 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition ? 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; 

And, sure, he is an honorable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brustus spoke, 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once—not without cause: 
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for 
him? 

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, 
And men have lost their reason!—Bear with me; 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 
And I must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 
Have stood against the world: now lies he there. 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

O masters! if I were disposed to stir 








WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


535 


Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who, you all know, are honorable men : 

I will not do them wrong; I rather choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, 
Than I will wrong such honorable men. 

But here’s a parchment, with the seal of 
Caesar,— 

I found it in his closet,—’tis his will: 

Let but the commons hear his testament, 
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read), 
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s 
wounds, 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; 
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 

And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 

Unto their issue. 

You all do know this mantle: I remember 
The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 

’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent; 
That day he overcame the Nervii:— 

Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through: 
See what a rent the envious Casca made : 
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ; 
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, 

As rushing out of doors, to be resolved 
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel: 
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved 
him! 

This was the most unkindest cut of all; 

For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, 
Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty 
heart; 

And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 


I Even at the base of Pompey’s statue, 

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! 
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 

O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel 
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. 
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but 
behold 

Our Caesar’s vesture wounded ? Look you here, 
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with 
traitors. 

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir 
you up 

To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 

They that have done this deed are honorable 
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 
That made them do it;—they are wise and 
honorable, 

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you, 
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; 
I am no orator as Brutus is; 

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 
That love my friend; and that they know 
full well 

That gave me public leave to speak of him : 
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 
To stir men’s blood : I only speak right on: 

I tell you that which you yourselves do know; 
Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor, poor 
dumb mouths, 

And bid them speak for me: but were I 
Brutus, 

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruffle up yonr spirits, and put a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 


A DAGGER OF THE MIND. 

FROM “MACBETH.” 


Macbeth before the murder of Duncan, meditating alone, sees the image of a dagger in 
the air, and thus soliloquizes : 


I S this a dagger which I see before me, 

The handle toward my hand ? Come, 
let me clutch thee :— 

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 


To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but 
A dagger of the mind, a false creation, 
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? 
I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
As this which now I draw. 





536 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


Thou marshaPst me the way that I was going; 
And sMch an instrument I was to use. 

Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other 
senses, 

Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; 
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, 
Which was not so before. — There’s no such 
thing: 

It is the bloody business, which informs 
Thus to mine eyes.—Now o’er the one-lialf 
world 

Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates 
Pale Hecate’s offerings; and withered murder, 
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf, 

Who howls his watch, thus with his stealthy 
pace, 


With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his 
design 

Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm-set 
earth, 

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for 
fear 

The very stones prate of my whereabout, 

And take the present horror from the time, 

Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, 
he lives: 

Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath 
gives. 

(A bell rings.') 

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. 

Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 

That summons thee to heaven or to hell. 


MEROY. 

FROM “THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.” 


HE quality of mercy is not strained ; 

It droppeth, as the gentle rain from 
heaven 

Upon the place beneatli: it is twice blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway— 


It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest 
God’s 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this— 
That in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy; 
And that same prayer should teach us all to 
render 

The deeds of mercy. 



QUEEN MAB. 

FROM “ROMEO AND JULIET.” 


O THEN I see, Queen Mab hath been 
with you. 

She is the fairies’ midwife; and she 
comes 

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman, 

Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep: 

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ 
legs; 


The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 

The traces, of the smallest spider’s web ; 

The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams; 
Her whip, of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film ; 
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat, 

Not half so big as a round little worm 
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid : 

Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 

Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies’ coach-makers. 









WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


537 


And in this state she gallops night by night 

Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream 
of love; 

On courtiers’ knees, that dream on court’sies 
straight; 

O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on 
fees ; 

O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream— 

Which oft the angry Mab with blisters 
plagues, 

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted 
are : 

Sometimes she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, 

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; 

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig’s 
tail, 

Tickling a parson’s nose as ’a lies asleep, 


I Then dreams he of another benefice: 
Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, 
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats. 
Of breaches, ambuscades, Spanish blades, 

] Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon 
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and 
wakes; 

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or 
two, 

And sleeps again. This is that very Mab, 
That plats the manes of horses in the night; 
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, 
Which, once untangled, much misfortune 
bodes: 

This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, 
That presses them, and learns them first to 
bear, 

Making them women of good carriage. 


OVER HILL, OVER DALE. 

FROM “ MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.” 


O VER hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
Over park, over pale, 

Through flood, through fire, 

I do wander everywhere, 

Swifter than the moon’s sphere ; 

And I serve the fairy queen, 


To dew her orbs upon the green : 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be, 

In their gold coats spots you see ; 

Those be rubies, fairy favors, 

In those freckles live their savors; 

I must go seek some dew drops here, 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. 


WOOLSEY’S FALL. 

FROM “HENRY VIII.” 


F AREWELL, a long farewell, to all my 
greatness! 

This is the state of man: to-day he 
puts forth 

The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blos¬ 
soms, 

And bears his blushing honors thick upon 
him : 

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; 
And—when he thinks, good easy man, full 
surely 

His greatness is a ripening—nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on blad- 
ders, 

This many summers in a sea of glory; 


But far beyond my depth: my high-blown 
pride 

At length broke under me; and now has 
left me, 

Weary and old with service, to the mercy 

Of a rude stream that must forever hide me. 

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: 

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched 

Is that poor man that hangs on prince’s favors! 

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire 
to, 

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 

More pangs and fears than wars or women 
have : 

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again. 







538 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 

FROM “MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.” 


F OR aught that ever I could read, 

Could ever hear by tale or history, 

The course of true love never did run 
smooth: 

But, either it was different in blood, 

Or else misgraffed iu respect of years; 

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ; 

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, 

War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, 


Making it momentary as a sound, 

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; 

Brief as the lightning in the collied night, 
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and 
earth, 

And ere a man hath power to say,—Behold! 
The jaws of darkness do devour it up: 

So quick bright things come to confusion. 


CARDINAL WOLSEY’S SPEECH TO CROMWELL. 

FROM “ HENRY YIH.” 


C ROMWELL, I did not think to shed a 
tear 

In all my miseries; but thou hast 
forced me, 

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 
By that sin fell the angels: how can man, I 
then, 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by’t ? 
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that | 
hate thee: 

Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear 
not: 


Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy coun 
try’s, 

Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O 
Cromwell! 

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. 

Serve the king; and—pr’ythee, lead me in : 
There take an inventory of all I have, 

To the last penny ;’t is the king’s: my robe, 
And my integrity to heaven, is all 
I dare now call my own. 0 Cromwell, Crom¬ 
well ! 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies ! 


SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 

FROM «HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.” 


H AMLET. To be, or not to be,—that is 
the question:— 

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to 
suffer 

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And, by opposing, end them ?—To die,—to 
sleep;— 

No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural 
shocks 

That flesh is heir to,—’t is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep ;— 


To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there’s 
the rub; 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may 
come, 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause: there’s the respect 

That makes calamity of so long life; 

Fo r who would bear the whips and scorns of 
time, 

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s con¬ 
tumely, 

The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, 

The insolence of office and the spurns 







WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


539 


That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels 
bear, 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death— 
That undiscovered country, from whose bourn 
No traveller returns,—puzzles the will, 


And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought ; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
And lose the name of action. 


WHERE THE BEE SUCKS. 

FROM “THE TEMPEST.” 


W HERE the bee sucks, there suck I: 
In a cowslip’s bell I lie; 

There I couch when owls do cry. 
On the bat’s back I do fly 


After summer, merrily. 

Merrily, merrily shall I live now, 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 


CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 


C RABBED age and youth 
Cannot live together ; 
Youth is full of pleasance, 
Age is full of care; 
Youth like summer morn, 

Age like winter weather; 
Youth like summer brave, 

Age like winter bare. 

Youth is full of sport, 

Age’s breath is short; 


Youth is nimble, age is lame; 
Youth is hot and bold, 

Age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild, and age is tame. 
Age, I do abhor thee ; 

Youth, I do adore thee; 

O, my love, my love is young! 
Age, I do defy thee ; 

O, sweet shepherd! hie thee, 

For methinks thou stay’st too long. 


INFLUENCE OF MUSIC. 


O RPHEUS, with his lute made trees, 
And the mountain-tops that freeze, 
Bow themselves when he did sing; 
To his music plants and flowers 
Ever sprung, as sun and showers 
There had made a lasting Spring. 


| Every thing that heard him play, 
i Even the billows of the sea, 

Hung their heads, and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art, 

Killing care, and grief of heart— 

Fall asleep, or, hearing, die! 








William Makepeace Thackeray. 

Renowned for Fiction and Humor. 


HIS eminent author was born in Calcutta, India, July 18, 1811, 
and was descended from an ancient family of Yorkshire. When 
he was only five years old he was sent to England to be edu¬ 
cated. As a young man his life seems to have lacked definite 
purpose. He spent some years at Cambridge, but never grad¬ 
uated ; he then studied on the continent, and especially in 
Italy, with the idea of becoming a painter. 

In 1831 he began reading law, but in 1832 he abandoned London for 
Paris. In 1837, having lost his modest fortune, he began to devote him¬ 
self wholly to literature. Not until 1848, with the publication of “ Vanity 
Fair,’’ did he become a literary celebrity. His succeeding novels also 
proved popular and for a time he rivalled Dickens in public favor. 

In 1852, and again in 1855-6, he lectured in the United States, and 
in 1857 was the unsuccessful liberal parliamentary candidate for Oxford. 
In 1857 he founded the “Cornhill Magazine,” but he resigned the editor¬ 
ship in 1862. He died in London, December 24, 1863. A marble bust 
to his memory stands in Westminister Abbey, and his name is recorded 
there with those of his country’s most eminent men. 

Another account of Mr. Thackeray says : “ Having inherited from 

his father a considerable fortune, and not being compelled to labor for his 
own livelihood, he chose the profession of an artist, but soou turned his 
attention to literature. 

“ For many years he was a contributor to ‘ Punch,’ and other periodi¬ 
cals, and gained great popularity. His works of fiction rivalled those of 
Dickens in popular favor, which is praise enough to be bestowed on any 
writer. One of his best and most popular works is ‘ Vanity Fair, a Novel 
Without a Hero; ’ another is entitled ‘ Pendennis.’ He visited the United 
States in 1852 and was very popular as a lecturer in all parts of the Union. 
Returning to England, he wrote the ‘ Virginians,’ which is considered one 
of his best works of fiction. He left several daughters, some of whom 
have inherited their father’s literary tastes and abilities.” 

640 




WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


541 


LITTLE 

HERE were three sailors of Bristol city 
Who took a boat and went to sea, 
But first with beef and captain’s bis¬ 
cuits 

And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, 
And the youngest, he was little Billee. 
Now, when they got as far as the equator, 
They’d nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

“ I am extremely hungaree.” 

To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 

“ We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.” 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

“ With one another we shouldn’t agree! 
There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, 
We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.” 

“ Oh, Billy, we’er going to kill and eat 
you, 

So undo the button of your chemie.” 


BILLEE. 

When Billy received this information 
He used his pocket-handkerchie. 

“ First let me say my catechism, 

Which my poor mammy taught to me.” 

“ Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling 
Jimmy, 

While Jack pulled out his snickersee. 

So Billy went up to the main top-gallant mast, 
And down he fell on his bended knee. 

He scarce had come to the twelfth command¬ 
ment 

When up he jumps: “ There’s land I see : 

“ Jerusalem and Madagascar, 

And North and South Amerikee: 

There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor, 
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B.” 

But when they got aboard of the admiral’s, 
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimrnee ; 
But as for little Bill, he made him 
The captain of a seventy-three. 



SORROWS OF WERTHER. 


W ERTHER had a love for Charlotte 
Such as words could never utter; 
Would you know how first he met her? 
She was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady 
And a mortal man was Werther, 

And for all the wealth of Indies 
Would do nothing for to hurt her. 


So he sighed and pined and ogled, 
And his passion boiled and bubbled, 
Till he blew his silly brains out, 

And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte, having seen his body 
Borne before her on a shutter, 

Like a well-conducted person, 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 


MR. MOLONY’S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. 

GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL 

COMPANY. 


O WILL ye choose to hear the news ? 
Bedad, I cannot pass it o’er: 

* I’ll tell you all about the ball 
To the Naypaulase Ambassador. 
Begor! this fete all balls does bate. 

At which I worn a pump, and I 
Must here relate the splendthor great 
Of th’ Oriental Company. 


These men of sinse dispoised expinse, 

To fete these black Achilleses. [mack’s, 
“We’ll show the blacks,” says they, “Al- 
And take the rooms at Willis’s.” 

With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, 
They hung the rooms of Willis up, 

And decked the walls and stairs and halls 
With roses and with lillies up. 







542 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


And Jullien’s band it tuck its stand 
So sweetly in the middle there, 

And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, 
And violins did fiddle there. 

And when the Coort was tired of spoort, 

I’d lave you, boys, to think there was 

A nate buffet before them set, 

Where lashins of good dhrink there was! 

At ten before the ball-room door, 

His moighty Excellency was; 

He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd, 

So gorgeous and immense he was. 

His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, 

Into the door-way followed him ; 

And O the noise of the blackguard boys, 
As they hurrood and hollowed him ! 

The noble Chair stud at the stair, 

And bade the dthrums to thump; and he 

Did thus evince to that Black Prince 
The welcome of his Company. 

O fair the girls, and rich the curls, 

And bright the oys, you saw there, was; 

And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, 

On Gineral Jung Bahawther was! 

This Gineral great then tuck his sate, 

With all the other ginerals, 

(Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat, 

All bleezed with precious minerals;) 

And as he there, with princely air, 
Recloinin on his cushion was, 

All round about his royal chair, 

The squeezin and the pusliin was. 


O Pat, such girls, such Jukes and Earls, 
Such fashion and nobilitee! 

Just think of Tim, and fancy him 
Amidst the hoigh gentility! 

There was Lord De L’Huys, and the Porty- 
Ministher and his lady there, [geest 

And I recognized, with much surprise, 

Our mesmate, Bob O’Grady, there; 

There was Baroness Bruno, that looked like 
And Baroness Rehausen there, [Juno, 

And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar 
Well, in her robes of gauze in there. 

There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first 
When only Mr. Pips he was), 

And Mick O’Toole, the great big fool, 

That after supper tipsy was. 

There was Lord Fingall and his ladies all, 
And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, 

And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife,— 

I wondther how he could stuff her in. 

There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, 
And seemed to ask how should I go there ? 

And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 
And the Marchioness of Sligo there. 

Yes, Jukes and Earls, and diamonds and 
pearls, 

And pretty girls, was spoorting there; 

And some beside (the rogues!) I spied, 
Behind the windies, coorting there. 

O, there’s one I know, bedad, would show 
As beautiful as any there; 

And I’d like to hear the pipers blow, 

And shake a fut with Fanny there! 


THE BRITISH WASHERWOMAN’S-ORPHANS’ HOME. 

FROM “COX’S DIARY.” 


A LTHOUGH there was a regular cut be¬ 
tween the next-door people and us, yet 
Tug and the Honorable Master Mac- 
Turk kept up their acquaintance over the 
back-garden wall, and in the stables, where' 
they were fighting, making friends, and play¬ 
ing tricks from morning to night, during the 
holidays. Indeed, it was from young Mac 
that we first heard of Madame de Flicflac, of 
whom my Jemmy robbed Lady Kilblazes, as 
I before have related. 


When our friend the Baron first saw 
Madame, a very tender greeting passed be¬ 
tween them ; for they had, as it appeared, 
been old friends abroad. “ Sapristie,” said 
the Baron, in his lingo, “ que fais-tu id, Amen- 
aide ? ” “ Et toi, mon pauvre Chicot ,” says she, 
“ est-ce qu’on fa mis a la retraile? II parait 
que iu n’est plus General chez Franco —•” 
“ Chut!” says the Baron, putting his finger 
to his lip 5 . 

“What are they saying, my dear?” says 





WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


543 


my wife to Jemimarann, who had a pretty 
knowledge of the language by this time. 

“I don’t know what ‘Sapristie’ means, 
mamma; but the Baron asked Madame what 
she was doing here ; and Madame said, ‘ And 
you, Chicot, you are no more a General at 
Franco.’ — Have I not translated rightly, 
Madame ? ” 

“ Oui, mon ehou, mon ange. Yase, my 
angel, my cabbage, quite right. Figure your' 
self, I have known my dear Chicot dis twenty 
years.” 

“ Chicot is my name of baptism,” says the 
Baron; “ Baron Chicot de Punter is my name.” 

“And being a General at Franco,” says 
Jemmy, “means, I suppose, being a French 
General ? ” 

“ Yes, I vas,” said he, “ General Baron de 
Punter— n’est-’apas, Amenaidef ” 

“ Oh, yes! ” said Madame Flicflac, and 
laughed; and I and Jemmy laughed out of 
politeness : and a pretty laughing matter it 
was, as you shall hear. 

About this time my Jemmy became one of 
the Lady-Patronesses of that admirable institu¬ 
tion, “The Washerwoman’s-Orphans’ Home; ” 
Lady de Sudley was the great projector of it; 
and the manager and chaplain, the excellent 
and reverend Sidney Slopper. His salary as 
chaplain, and that of Doctor Leitch, the 
physician (both cousins of her ladyship’s), 
drew away five hundred pounds from the six 
subscribed to the Charity : and Lady de Sud¬ 
ley thought a fete at Beulah Spa, with aid of 
some of the foreign princes who were in town 
last year, might bring a little more money into 
its treasury. A tender appeal was accordingly 
drawn up, and published in all the papers: 

“ APPEAL. 

“ BRITISH WASHERWOMAN’S-ORPHANS’ HOME. 

“ The Washerwoman’s-Orphans’ Home has 
now been established seven years, and the 
good which it has effected is, it may be 
confidently stated, incalculable. Ninety-eight 
orphan children of Washerwomen have been 
lodged within its walls. One hundred and 
two British Washerwomen have been relieved 
when in the last stage of decay. One hun¬ 
dred AND NINETY-EIGHT THOUSAND articles 


of male and female dress have been washed, 
mended, buttoned, ironed, and mangled in the 
Establishment. And, by an arrangement 
with the governors of the Foundling, it is to 
be hoped that the Baby-linen of that hos¬ 
pital will be confided to the British Wash¬ 
erwoman’s Home! 

“With such prospects before it, is it not 
sad, is it not lamentable to think, that the 
Patronesses of the Society have been com¬ 
pelled to reject the applications of no less than 
THREE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND ONE 

British Washerwomen, from Lckof means 
for their support? Ladies of England! 
Mothers of England! to you we appeal. Is 
there one of you that will not respond to the 
cry in behalf of these deserving members of 
our sex ? 

“ It has been determined by the Ladies- 
Patronesses to give a fete at Beulah Spa, on 
Thursday, July 25; which will be graced 
with the first foreign and native talent ; by 
the first foreign and native rank ; and where 
they beg for the attendance of every wash¬ 
erwoman’s FRIEND.” 

Her Highness the Princess of Schloppen- 
zollernschwigmaringen, the Duke of Sacks- 
Tubbingen, His Excellency Baron Strumpff, 
His Excellency Lootf-Allee-Koolee-Bismillah- 
Mohamed-Rusheed-Allah, the Persian Am¬ 
bassador ; Prince Futtee-Jaw, Envoy from the 
King of Oude; His Excellency Don Alonzo 
di Cachachero-y-Fandango-y-Castanete, the 
Spanish Ambassador; Count Ravioli, from 
Milan ; the Envoy of the Republic of Topin- 
ambo, and a host of other fashionables, prom¬ 
ised to honor the festival; and their names 
made a famous show in the bills. Besides 
these we had the celebrated band of Mos- 
cowmusiks, the seventy-seven Transylvanian 
trumpeters, and the famous Bohemian Minne¬ 
singers ; with all the leading artists of Lon¬ 
don, Paris, the Continent, and the rest of 
Europe, 

I leave you to fancy what a splendid triumph 
for the British Washerwoman’s Home was to 
come off on that day. A beautiful tent was 
erected, in which the Ladies-Patronesses were 
to meet; it was hung round with specimens 
of the skill of the washerwomen’s-orphans ; 



544 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


ninety-six of whom were to be feasted in 
the gardens, and waited on by the Ladies- 
Patronesses. 

Well, Jemmy and my daughter, Madame 
de Flicfiac, myself, the Count, Baron Punter, 
Tug, and Tagrag, all went down in the chariot 
and barouche-and-four, quite eclipsing poor 
Lady Kilblazes and her carriage-and-two. 

There was a fine cold collation, to which 
the friends of the Ladies-Patronesses were 
admitted, after which, my ladies and their 
beaux went strolling through the walks; Tag- 
rag and the Count having each an arm of 
Jemmy; the Baron giving an arm a-piece to 
Madame and Jemimarann. Whilst they were 
walking, whom should they light upon but 
poor Orlando Crump, my successor in the 
perfumery and hair-cutting. 

“ Orlando ! ” says Jemimarann, blushing as 
red as a label, and holding out her hand. 

“ Jemimar! ” says he, holding out his, and 
turning as white as pomatum. 

“ Sir !” says Jemmy as stately as a Duchess. 
“ What! madam,’ ’ says poor Crump, “ don’t 
you remember your shopboy ? ’ ’ 

“ Dearest mamma, don’t you recollect Or¬ 
lando ? ” whimpers Jemimarann, whose hand 
he had got hold of. 

“ Miss Tuggeridge-Coxe,” says Jemmy, “ I’m 
surprised at you. Remember, sir, that our 
position is altered, and oblige me by no more 
familiarity.” 

“ Insolent fellow! ” says the Baron, “ vat is 
dis canaille ? ” 

“ Canal yourself, Monseer,” says Orlando, 
now grown quite furious ; he broke away, 
quite indignant, and was soon lost in the 
crowd. Jemimarann, as soon as he was gone, 
began to look very pale and ill; and her 
mamma, therefore took her to a tent, where 
she left her along with Madame Flicfiac and 
the Baron; going off herself with the other gen¬ 
tlemen, in order to join us. 

It appears they had not been seated very 
long, when Madame Flicfiac suddenly sprang 
up, with an exclamation of joy, and rushed 
forward to a friend whom she saw pass. 

The Baron was left alone with Jemimarann : 
and whether it was the champagne, or that my 
dear girl looked more than commonly pretty, 


I don’t know ; but Madame Flicfiac had not 
been gone a minute, when the Baron dropped 
on his knees and made her a regular dec¬ 
laration. 

Poor Orlando Crump had found me out by 
this time, and was standing by my side, listen¬ 
ing, as melancholy as possible, to the famous 
Bohemian Minnesingers, who were singing 
the celebrated words of the poet Gothy: 

“ Ich bin ya hupp lily lee, du bist ya hupp 
lily lee, 

Wir sind doch hupp lily lee, hupp la lily 
lee. 

“ Chorus—Yodle - odle - odle - odle - odle - odle 
hupp ! yodle-odle-aw-o-o-o! ” 

They were standing with their hands in their 
waistcoats, as usual, and had just come to the 
“ o-o-o,” at the end of the chorus of the forty- 
seventh stanza, when Orlando started : “ That’s 
a scream ! ” says he. “ Indeed it is,” says I; 
“ and, but for the fashion of the thing, a very 
ugly scream too, ” when I heard another 
shrill “ Oh! ” as I thought; and Orlando 
bolted off, crying, “By heavens, it’s her voice!” 
“ Whose voice? ” says I. “ Come and see the 
row,” says Tag. And off we went, with a 
considerable number of people, who saw this 
strange move on his part. 

We came to the tent, and there we found 
my poor Jemimarann fainting; her mamma 
holding a smelling bottle ; the Baron on the 
ground, holding a handkerchief to his bleed¬ 
ing nose ; and Orlando squaring at him, and 
calling on him to fight if he dared. 

My Jemmy looked at Crump very fierce. 
“Take that feller away,” says she; “he has 
insulted a French nobleman, and deserves 
transportation, at the least.” 

Poor Orlando was carried off. “I’ve no 
patience with the little minx,” says Jemmy, 
giving Jemimarann a pinch. “ She might be 
a Baron’s lady; and she screams out because 
his Excellency did but squeeze her hand.” 

“ Oh, mamma! mamma ! ” sobs poor Jemi¬ 
marann, “but he was t-t-tipsy.” 

“ T-t tipsy ! and the more shame for you, 
you hussy, to be offended with a nobleman who 
does not know what he is doing.” 








WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


545 


THE END OF THE PLAY. 


T HE play is done—the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter’s bell; 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around to say farewell. 

It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he’s laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that’s anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends — 

Let’s close it with a parting rhyme ; 

And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas time ; 

On life’s wide scene you, too, have parts, 
That fate ere long shall bid you play ; 

Good night!—with honest gentle hearts 
A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good-night!—I’d say the griefs, the joys 
Just hinted in this mimic page, 

The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age ; 

I’d say your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain than those of men— 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 
At forty-five played o’er again. 

I’d say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys — 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys. 

And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray, 

Pray Heaven that early love and truth 
May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I’d say how fate may change and shift — 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift; 

The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 

The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design ? 

Blessed be He who took and gave! 

Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 
Be weeping at her darling’s grave ? 

35 


We bow to Heaven that willed it so. 

That darkly rules the fate of all, 

That sends the respite or the blow, 

That’s free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit— 
Who brought him to that mirth and state? 
His betters, see, below him sit, 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 

Who bade the mud from Dives’ wheel 
To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 

Come, brother, in that dust we’ll kneel, 
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life’s advance, 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed— 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 

And longing passion unfulfilled. 

Amen !—whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part, 

And bow before the awful will, 

And bear it with, an honest heart, 

Who misses, or who wins the prize— 

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 

But if you fail, or if you rise, 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays;) 

The sacred chorus first was sung 
Upon the first of Christmas days; 

The shepherds heard it overhead— 

The joyful angels raised it then : 

Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men! 

My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 

And wish you health, and love, and mirth. 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 

As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still— 

Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 



Th omas Hood. 

Who Sane “The Sone of the Shirt.” 

o o 

AYS W. M. Rossetti—and he is acknowledged authority on all 
questions relating to literature—“ As a poet and humorist Hood 
has touched the universal heart. His two productions, ‘ Song 
of the Shirt ’ and ‘ Bridge of Sighs,’ are sufficient to give him 
immortal fame, even if he had written nothing else. It has 
been well said that the predominant characteristics of Hood’s 
genius are humorous fancies grafted upon melancholy impressions. Yet 
the term ‘ grafted ’ is hardly strong enough. Hood appears by natural 
bent and permanent habit of mind to have seen and sought for ludicrous¬ 
ness under all conditions; it was the first thing that struck him. 

“ On the other hand, his nature being poetic, his sympathies acute, 
and the condition of his life morbid, he very frequently wrote in a tone of 
deep melancholy feeling, and was a master both of his own art and of the 
reader’s emotion. Sometimes, not very often, we are allowed to reach the 
close of a poem of his without having our attention jogged and called off 
by something grotesque, and then we feel how exquisite a poetic sense 
and choice a cunning of hand were his. On the whole we can pronounce 
him the finest English poet between the generation of Shelley and the 
generation of Tennyson.” 

Hood was born in London in 1798 and died in 1845. His lot was 
hard in early life, and this often gave a melancholy tinge to his genuine 
native humor. As a punster he was unrivalled. 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 


W ITH fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread— 
Stitch! stitch! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the “ Song of the Shirt! ” 

546 


Work! work! work! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! 

And work—work—work, 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It’s O! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 
If this is Christian work! 





THOMAS HOOD. 


647 


W ork—work—work 

Till the brain begins to swim! 

W ork—work—work 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam— 

Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

O, men, with sisters dear! 

0 , men, with mothers and wives! 

It is not linen you’re wearing out, 

But human creatures’ lives' 

Stitch—stitch—stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt— 

Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt! 

But why do I talk of death— 

That phantom of grisly bone? 

I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own— 

It seems so like my own 
Because of the fasts I keep; 

O God! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap! 

Work—work—work ! 

My labor never flags; 

And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 
A crust of bread—and rags. 

That shattered roof—and this naked floor— 
A table—a broken chair— 

And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 
For sometimes falling there! 

Work—work—work ! 

From weary chime to chime! 

W ork—work—work— 

As prisoners work for crime! 


Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band— 

Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 
As well as the weary hand. 

Work—work—work 

In the dull December light! 

And work—work—work, 

When the weather is warm and bright! 
While underneath the eaves 
The brooding swallows cling, 

As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

Oh! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet— 

With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet! 

For only one short hour 
To feel as I used to feel, 

Before I knew the woes of want, 

And the walk that costs a meal! 

Oh ! but for one short hour— 

A respite however brief! 

No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 

A little weeping w ould ease my heart; 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 
Hinders needle and thread! 

With fingers weary and worn, 

And eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread— 

Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch— 
Would that its tone could reach the rich!— 
She sang this “ Song of the Shirt! ” 


I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 


I REMEMBER, I remember, 
The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn ; 

He never came a wink too soon 
Nor brought too long a day, 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away! 


I remember, I remember, 

The roses, red and white, 

The violets, and the lily-cups, 
Those flowers made of light! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 
And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birth-day,- 
The tree is living yet! 





THOMAS HOOD. 


548 


I remember, I remember, 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 
To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 
The fever on my brow! 


I remember, I remember, 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 

I used to think their slender tops 
Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now ’tis little joy 
To know I’m further oft' from heaven 
Than when I was a boy. 


AUTUMN. 


T HE autumn is old; 

The sear leaves are flying; 

He hath gathered up gold, 
And now he is dying: 

Old age, begin sighing! 

The vintage is ripe; 

The harvest is lieaping; 

But some that have sowed 
Have no riches for reaping— 
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping! 


The year’s in the wane ; 

There is nothing adorning; 
The night has no eve, 

And the day has no morning; 
Cold winter gives warning. 

The rivers run chill; 

The red sun is sinking; 

And I am grown old, 

And life is fast shrinking ; 
Here’s enow for sad thinking! 


NO! 


N O sun—no moon ! 

No morn—no noon— [day— 

No dawn—no dust—no proper time of 
No sky—no earthly view— 

No distance looking blue— [way ”— 
No road—no street—no “ t’other side the 
No end to any row— 

No indications where the crescents go— 
No top to any steeple— 

No recognitions of familiar people— 

No courtesies for showing ’em— 

No knowing ’em! 


No traveling at all—no locomotion, 

No inkling of the way—no notion— 

“ No go ”—by land or ocean— 

No mail—no post— 

No news from any foreign coast— 

No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility— 
No company—no nobility— 

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 
No comfortable feel in any member— 

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds. 
November! 


FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 


B EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, 
And used to war’s alarms; 

But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 
So he laid down his arms! 

Now as they bore him off the field, 

Said he, “ Let others shoot, 

For here I leave my second leg, 

And the Forty-second Foot! ” 


The army-surgeons made him limbs : 

Said he—“ They’re only pegs; 

But there’s as wooden members quite 
As represent my legs! ” 

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, 

Her name was Nelly Gray ! 

So he went to pay her his devoms 
When he’d devoured his pay. 










THOMAS HOOD. 


549 


But when he called on Nelly Gray, 

She made him quite a scoff, 

And when she saw his wooden legs, 

Began to take them off! 

“ O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray! 

Is this your love so warm ? 

The love that loves a scarlet coat, 

Should be more uniform ! ” 

Said she, “ I loved a soldier once, 

For he was blithe and brave; 

But I will never have a man 
With both legs in the grave! 

“ Before you had those timber toes 
Your love I did allow, 

But then you know, you stand upon 
Another footing now! ” 

‘ O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! 

For all your cheering speeches, 

At duty’s call I left my legs 
In Badajos’s breaches /” 

“ Why, then,” said she, “ you’ve lost the feet 
Of legs in war’s alarms, 

And now you cannot wear your shoes 
Upon your feats of arms! ” 

“ O, false and fickle Nelly Gray ; 

I know why you refuse:— 


Though I’ve no feet—some other man 
Is standing in my shoes! 

“ I wish I ne’er had seen your face; 

But, now, a long farewell! 

For you will be my death:—alas! 

You will not be my Nell! ” 

Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 

His heart so heavy got— 

And life was such a burthen grown, 

It made him take a knoi! 

So round his melancholy neck 
A rope he did entwine, 

And, for his second time in life, 

Enlisted in the Line! 

One end he tied around a beam, 

And then removed his pegs, 

And, as his legs were off—of course, 

He soon was off his legs! 

And there he hung till he was dead 
As any nail in town— 

For though distress had cut him up, 

It could not cut him down ! 

A dozen men sat on his corpse, 

To find out why he died— 

And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 
With a stake in his inside ! 


JOHN DAY. 


A Day After the Fair.— Old Proverb. 

The famous author styles this “APathetic Ballad.” The reader will understand that 
the “ Crown ” is the name of an English public house and the “ Dart” is the name of a stage¬ 
coach. The term “ stone ” means, in England, fourteen pounds when applied to a person’s 
weight. “ Carried sixteen stone ” implies that the portly coachman, John Day, weighed 224 
pounds. 


J OHN DAY he was the*biggest man 
Of all the coachman kind, 

With back too broad to be conceived 
By any narrow mind. 

The very horse knew his weight 
When he was in the rear, 

And wished his box a Christmas-box 
To come but once a year. 

Alas ! against the shafts of love, 

What armor can avail? 


Soon Cupid sent an arrow through 
His scarlet coat of mail. 

The bar-maid of the Crown he loved, 
From whom he never ranged, 

For though he changed his horses there, 
His love he never changed. 

He thought her fairest of all fares, 

So fondly love prefers; 

And often, among twelve outsides. 
Deemed no outside like hers. 





550 


THOMAS HOOD. 


One day as she was sitting down 
Beside the porter-pump— 

He came and knelt with all his fat 
And made an offer plump. 

Said she, “ My taste will never learn 
To like so huge a man, 

So I must beg you will come here 
As little as you can.” 

But still he stoutly urged his suit, 

With vows, and sighs, and tears, 

Yet could not pierce her heart, although 
He drove the Dart for years. 

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued ; 
The maid was cool and proud, 

And sent him off to Coventry, 

While on his way to Stroud. 

He fretted all the way to Stroud, 

And thence all back to town, 

The course of love was never smooth 
So his went up and down. 

At last her coolness made him pine 
To merely bones and skin ; 

But still he loved like one resolved 
To love through thick and thin. 


“ Oh ! Mary, view my wasted back, 
And see my dwindled calf; 

Though I have never had a wife, 

I’ve lost my better half.” 

Alas ! in vain he still assailed, 

Her heart withstood the dint; 

Though he carried sixteen stone, 

He could not move a flint. 

Worn out at last he made a vow 
To break his being’s link ; 

For he was so reduced in size 
At nothing he could shrink. 

Now some will talk in water’s praise, 
And waste a deal of breath, 

But John, though he drank nothing else 
He drank himself to death. 

The cruel maid that caused his love 
Found out the fatal close, 

For looking in the butt, she saw, 

The butt-end of his woes. 

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, 
But that is only talk— 

For after riding all his life, 

His ghost objects to walk. 


THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 


The name of this poem was suggested to the author by the “ Bridge of Sighs,” at Venice. 
This bridge received its name from the fact that it connects the ducal palace with the prison, 
and criminals pass over it to the dismal dungeons where they receive their punishment. 


O NE more unfortunate 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care; 
Fashioned so slenderly— 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments, 
Clinging like cerements, 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing: 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing! 


Touch her not scornfully! 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly— 
Not of the stains of her : 
All that remains of her 
Now i3 pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny, 
Into her mutiny, 

Rash and undutiful; 
Past all dishonor, 

Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers— 
One of Eve’s family— 





THOMAS HOOD. 


551 


Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 

Escaped from the comb— 
Her fair auburn tresses— 
Whilst wonderment guesses, 
Where was her home ? 

Who was her father ? 

Who was her mother? 

Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother ? 

Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other ? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun! 

Oh, it was pitiful! 

Near a whole city full, 

Home she had none, 

Sisterly, brotherly, 

Fatherly, motherly 

Feelings had changed— 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God’s providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a light 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement, 

She stood, with amazement, 
Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver, 
But not the dark arch, 

Or the black, flowing river; 
Mad from life’s history, 


Glad to death’s mystery, 
Swift to be hurled— 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world! 

In she plunged boldly— 

No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran— 
Over the brink of it! 

Picture it—think of it, 
Dissolute man! 

Lave in it, drink of it 
Then, if you can! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair! 

Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
Stiffen too rigidly, 

Decently, kindly, 

Smooth and compose them, 
And her eyes, close them. 
Staring so blindly!— 

Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 

Spurred by contumely, 

Cold inhumanity, 

Burning insanity, 

Into her rest! 

Cross her hands humbly, 

As if praying dumbly, 

Over her breast! 

Owning her weakness, 

Her evil behavior, 

And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour 1 


• - 



Thomas Babington Macaulay. 

Celebrated Historian and Essayist. 


HOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, the distinguished his¬ 
torian and one of the greatest of English writers, was born in 
Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, in 1800. At Trinity College 
his career was not the success anticipated, owing to his weak¬ 
ness in mathematics. In 1824 he was elected a Fellow of the 
college, and in 1826 called to the bar. He devoted much time 
to both politics and literature, and it was during this period that many 
of his famous essays appeared. 

In 1832 he was appointed a member of the newly-formed supreme 
Indian council and drew the draft of what in time became the penal code 
of India. In 1839 having returned to England, he became secretary of 
war. Shortly afterwards he began work on his “ History of England,” 
the first two volumes of which appeared in December, 1848. The third 
and fourth volumes w^ere published in 1855, and in 1857 he was rewarded 
with a peerage. He succeeded in bringing his history down to the death 
of William III., and died himself December 28, 1859, and was honored 
with a resting place in that renowned mausoleum of monarchs, heroes, 
poets and statesmen, Westminster Abbey. His fame rests chiefly on this 
history and on his essays, although some of his poems have gained a 
wide celebrity. 

In our American schools and universities the writings of Macaulay 
have long been considered as models of literary composition. The lang¬ 
uage is chaste and well chosen, the style is exceedingly polished and 
ornate, the elevation of thought and sentiment is constantly apparent, 
and although we discover constantly the marks of the hammer’s finishing 
strokes, his writings are not lacking in that rugged force which arouses 
and masters the reader. 

Macaulay never married. His devotion to the members of his imme¬ 
diate family who needed his strong arm for strength and support, was 
one of his distinguishing traits and endeared him to the public; so much 
so, that a certain feeling of affection may be said to have mingled with 

552 




LORD MACAULAY. 


553 


admiration for liis superb intellectual gifts and attainments. His eleva¬ 
tion to the peerage was inevitable; he won it by his “ History of England ” 
and other works. This well-merited recognition of his pre-eminence in 
the world of letters was not merely an official act by government, but was 
a spontaneous tribute from his appreciative countrymen. 


THE REIGN 

N OW began that strange period known by 
the name of the Reign of Terror. The 
Jacobins had prevailed. This was 
their hour and the power of darkness. The 
convention was subjugated, and reduced to 
profound silence on the highest questions of 
state. The sovereignty passed to the Com¬ 
mittee of Public Safety. To the edicts 
framed by that Committee, the representative 
assembly did not venture to offer even the 
species of opposition which the ancient Par¬ 
liament had frequently offered to the man¬ 
dates of the ancient kings. 

Then came those days, when the most bar¬ 
barous, of all codes was administered by the 
most barbarous of all tribunals; when no 
man could greet his neighbors, or say his 
prayers, or dress his hair, without danger of 
committing a capital crime; when spies lurked 
in every corner; when the guillotine was long 
and hard at work every morning; when the 
jails were filled as close as the hold of a slave 
ship; and the gutters ran foaming with blood 
into the Seine. 

No mercy was shown to sex or age. The 
number of young lads and of girls of seven¬ 
teen who were murdered by that execrable 
government, is to be reckoned by hundreds. 
Babies, torn from the breast, were tossed from 
pike to pike along the Jacobin ranks. One 
champion of liberty had his pockets well 
stuffed with ears. Another swaggered about 
with the finger of a little child in his hat. A 
few months had sufficed to degrade France 
below the level of New Zealand. 

It is absurd to say, that any amount of 
public danger can justify a system like this. 
It is true that great emergencies call for 
activity and vigilance; it is true that they 


OF TERROR. 

justify severity which, in ordinary times, 
would deserve the name of cruelty. But 
indiscriminate severity can never, under any 
circumstances, be useful. It is plain that the 
whole efficacy of punishment depends on the 
care with which the guilty are distinguished. 
Punishment which strikes the guilty and the 
innocent promiscuously, operates merely like 
a pestilence or a great convulsion of nature, 
and has no more tendency to prevent offences, 
than the cholera or an earthquake, like that 
of Lisbon, would have. 

The great Queen who so long held her own 
against foreign and domestic enemies, against 
temporal and spiritual arms ; the great Pro¬ 
tector who governed with more than regal 
power, in despite both of royalists and repub¬ 
licans ; the great King who, with a beaten 
army and an exhausted treasury, defended 
his little dominions to the last against the 
united efforts of Russia, Austria, and France; 
with what scorn would they have heard that 
it was impossible for them to strike a salutary 
terror into the disaffected, without sending 
school-boys and school-girls to death by cart¬ 
loads and boat-loads! 

To behead people by scores, without caring 
whether they are guilty or innocent; to wring 
money out of the rich by the help of jailers 
and executioners; to rob the public creditor, 
and put him to death, if he remonstrates; to 
take loaves by force out of the bakers’ shops; 
to clothe and mount soldiers by seizing on one 
man’s wool and linen, and on another man’s 
horses and saddles, without compensation, is 
of all modes of governing the simplest and 
most obvious. Of its morality, we, at present, 
say nothing. But, surely, it requirts no 
capacity beyond that of a barbarian or a child. 




554 


LORD MACAULAY. 


By means like those which we have de¬ 
scribed the Committee of Public Safety 
undoubtedly succeeded, for a short time, in 
enforcing profound submission, and in raising 
immense funds. But to enforce submission 
by butchery, and to raise funds by spoliation, 
is not statesmanship. The real statesman is 


he who, in troubled times, keeps down the 
turbulent without unnecessarily harrassing 
the well affected ; and who, when great pecu¬ 
niary resources are needed, provides for the 
public exigencies without violating the security 
of property, and drying up the sources of 
future prosperity. 


BATTLE OF NASEBY. 

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON; 
SERGEANT IN IRETON’S REGIMENT. 


O WHEREFORE come ye forth, in tri¬ 
umph from the North, 

* With your hands and your feet and 
your raiment all red? 

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a 
joyous shout? 

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press 
that ye tread! 

O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that 
we trod; 

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty 
and the strong, 

Who sat in the high places and slew the saints 
of God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day in 
June, 

That we saw their banners dance and their 
cuirasses shine, 

And the man of blood was there, with his long 
essenced hair, 

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert 
of the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and 
his sword, 

The General rode along us to form us to the 
fight; 

When a murmuring sound broke out, and 
swelled into a shout 

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s 
right. 

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the 
shore, 

The cry of battle rises along their charging 
line! 


For God ! for the cause!—for the church! for 
the laws ! 

For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of 
the Rhine! 

The furious German comes, with his clarions 
and his drums, 

His braves of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; 

They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your 
pikes! Close your ranks! 

For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to 
fall. 

They are here! They rush on ! We are broken! 
We are gone! 

Our left is borne before them like stubble on 
the blast, 

O Lord, put forth thy might! 0 Lord, defend 
the right! 

Stand back to back, in God’s name! and fight 
it to the last! 

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath 
given ground : 

Hark! hark! what means the trampling of 
horsemen on our rear? 

Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he! thank 
God! ’tis he, boys! 

Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is 
here. 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all 
in a row, 

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge 
on the dikes, 

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the 
accurst, 

And at a shock have scattered the forest of his 
pikes. 








LORD MACAULAY. 


555 


Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook 
to hide 

Their coward heads, predestined to rot on 
Temple Bar; 

And he—he turns, he flies :—shame on those 
cruel eyes 

That bore to look on torture, and dare not 
look on war! 

Ho! comrades, scour the plain ; and, ere ye 
strip the slain, 

First give another stab to make your search 
secure; 

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their 
broadpieces and lockets, 

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the 
poor. 

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and 
your hearts were gay and bold, 

When you kissed your lily hands to your 
lemans to-day; 

And to-morrow shall the fox, from her cham¬ 
bers in the rocks, 

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the 
prey. 


i Where be your tongues that late mocked at 
heaven, and hell, and fate, 

And the fingers that once were so busy with 
your blades, 

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and 
your oaths, 

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your dia¬ 
monds and your spades ? 

Down ! down! forever down, with the mitre 
and the crown! 

! With the Belial of the court, and the Mam¬ 
mon of the Pope! 

There is woe in Oxford halls; there is wail in 
Durham’s stalls; 

The Jesuit smites his bosom; the bishop rends 
his cope. 

And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her 
children’s ills, 

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of 
England’s sword; 

And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder 
when they hear 

What the hand of God hath wrought for the 
Houses and the Word! 


HORATIUS. 

FROM “HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.” 


A LONE stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind; 

Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 
And the broad flood behind. 

“ Down with him! ” cried false Sextus, 
With a smile on his pale face. 

“ Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena, 
“ Now yield thee to our grace.” 

Round turned he, as not deigning 
Those craven ranks to see ; 

Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he; 

But he saw on Palatinus 
The white porch of his home; 

And he spake to the noble river 
That rolls by the towers of Rome. 

“ O Tiber! Father Tiber! 

To whom the Romans pray, 


A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, 

Take thou in charge this day! ” 

So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 
The good sword by his side, 

And, with his harness on his back, 
Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 
Was heard from either bank ; 

But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 
Stood gazing where he sank: 

And when above the surges 
They saw his crest appear, 

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 
Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen high by months of rain ; 






556 


LORD MACAULAY. 


Ami fast his blood was flowing; 

And he was sore in pain, 

And heavy with his armor, 

And spent with changing blows; 

And oft they thought him sinking, 

But still again lie rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer, 

In such an evil case, 

Struggle through such a raging flood 
Safe to the landing-place. 

But his limbs were borne up bravely 
By the brave heart within, 

And our good Father Tiber 
Bare bravely up his chin. 

“ Curse on him! ” quoth false Sextus; 

“ Will not the villain drown ? 

But for this stay, ere close of day 
We should have sacked the town! ” 

“ Heaven help him ! ” quoth Lars Porsena, 
“ And bring him safe to shore; 


For such a gallaut feat of arms 
Was never seen before.” 

And now he feels the bottom; 

Now on dry earth he stands; 

Now round him throng the Fathers 
To press his gory hands: 

And now with shouts and clapping, 
And noise of weeping loud, 

He enters through the River Gate, 
Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land 
That was of public right 
As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from morn till night; 
And they made a molten image, 

And set it up on high, 

And there it stands unto this day 
To witness if I lie. 


THE PURITANS OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY- 

Lord Macauley’s glowing description of the Puritians has been pronounced the finest 
writing of its kind to be found in our language. It is the product of pre-eminent literary 
ability, and the highest genius. 


W E would first speak of the Puritans of 
the sixteenth century, the most re¬ 
markable body of men, perhaps, 
which the world has ever produced. 

Those who roused the people to resistance 
—who directed their measures through a long 
series of eventful years—who formed, out of 
the most unpromising materials, the finest army 
that Europe had ever seen—who trampled 
down king, church and aristocracy—who, in 
the short intervals of domestic sedition and 
rebellion, made the name of England terrible 
to every nation on the face of the earth— 
were no vulgar fanatics. 

Most of their absurdities were mere exter¬ 
nal badges, like the signs of freemasonry or 
the dresses of friars. We regret that these 
badges were not more attractive; we regret 
that a body, to whose courage and talents 
mankind has owed inestimable obligations, 
had not the lofty elegance which distinguished 
some of the adherents of Charles I., or the 


easy good breeding for which the court of 
Charles II. was celebrated. But, if we must 
make our choice, we shall, like Bassanio in 
the play, turn from the specious caskets which 
contain only the Death’s head and the Fool’s 
head, and fix our choice on the plain leaden 
chest which conceals the treasure. 

The Puritans were men whose minds had 
derived a peculiar character from the daily 
contemplation of superior beings and eternal 
interests. Not content with acknowledging, 
in general terms, an overruling Providence, 
they habitually ascribed every event to the 
will of the Great Being, for whose power 
nothing was too minute. To know him, to 
serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the 
great end of existence. 

They rejected with contempt the ceremon¬ 
ious homage which other sects substituted for 
the pure worship of the soul. Instead of 
catching occasional glimpses of the Deity 
through an obscuring vail, they aspired to 





LORD MACAULAY. 


557 


gaze full on the intolerable brightness, and to 
commune with him face to face. Hence 
originated their contempt for terrestrial dis¬ 
tinctions. 

The difference between the greatest and 
meanest of mankind seemed to vanish when 
compared with the boundless interval which 
separated the whole race from him on whom 
their own eyes were constantly fixed. 

They recognized no title to superiority but 
his favor; and, confident of that favor, they 
despised all the accomplishments and all the 
dignities of the world. If they were unac¬ 
quainted with the works of philosophers and 
poets, they were deeply read in the oracles 
of God; if their names were not sound in the 
registers of heralds, they felt assured that 
they were recorded in the Book of Life; if 
their steps were not accompanied by a splen¬ 
did train of menials, legions of ministering 
angels had charge over them. Their palaces 
were houses not made with hands; their 
diadems, crowns of glory which should never 
fade away. 

On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles 
and priests, they looked down with contempt; 
for they esteemed themselves rich in a more 


precious treasure, and eloquent in a more 
sublime language—nobles by the right of an 
earlier creation, and priests by the imposition 
of a mightier hand. The very meanest of 
them was a being to whose fate a mysterious 
and terrible importance belonged—on whose 
slightest actions the spirits of light and dark¬ 
ness looked with anxious interest—who had 
been destined, before heaven and earth were 
created, to enjoy a felicity which should con¬ 
tinue when heaven and earth should have 
passed away. 

Events which short-sighted politicians as¬ 
cribed to earthly causes had been ordained 
on his account. For his sake empires had 
risen and flourished and decayed; for his 
sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will 
by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of 
the prophet. He had been rescued by no 
common deliverer from the grasp of no com¬ 
mon foe; he had been ransomed by the sweat 
of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly 
sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had 
been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, 
that the dead had arisen, that all nature had 
shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring 
God! 


THE FATE OF VIRGINIA. 

Virginia, a Roman maiden, celebrated for her beauty and tragical fate, was a daughter 
of Lucius Virgiuius, an officer of the army. She was betrothed to L. Icilius, a tribune of 
the people, from whom the decemvir Appius Claudius wished to abduct her. She was 
seized by M. Claudius, one of the agents of Appius, who pretended that she was his slave, 
and who, in order to prove his claim, took her before the tribunal of Appius. Virginius 
arrived at the forum just after the decemvir had decided that she was the slave of Claudius. 
He immediately killed her, to deliver her from slavery and dishonor. The people revolted 
against the desemvirs and dragged Appius Claudius to prison, where he killed himself. 


^ f T li THY is the Forum crowded? What 
Y Y means this stir in Rome? ” 

“ Chained as a slave, a free-born maid 
is dragged here from her home. 

On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of 
blight; 

The tyrant’s creatui*e, Marcus, asserts an 
owner’s right, 

Oh, shame on Roman manhood! Was ever 
plot more clear ? 


But look! the maiden’s father comes! Behold 
Virginius is here! ’ ’ 

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little 
space aside, 

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled 
up with horn and hide. 

Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his 
whittle down— 

Virginius caught the whittle up and hid it in 
his gown. 





558 


LORD MACAULAY. 


And then his eyes grew very dim, and his 
throat began to swell, 

And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, 
“Farewell, sweet child, farewell! 

The house that was the happiest within the 
Roman walls— 

The house that envied not the wealth of 
Capua’s marble halls, 

Now, for the brightness of thy smile must 
have eternal gloom, 

And for the music of thy voice, the silence 
of the tomb. 

“The time is come. The tyrant points his 
eager hand this way ; 

See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a 
kite’s upon the prey; 

With all his wit he little deems that, spurned, 
betrayed, bereft, 

Thy father hath in his despair, one fearful 
refuge left; 

He little deems that in this hand, I clutch 
what still can save 

Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the 
portion of the slave; 

Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth 
taunt and blow— 

Foul outrage, which thou knowest not—which 
thou shalt never know. 

Then clasp me round the neck once more, and 
give me one more kiss; 

And now, mine own dear little girl, there is 
no way but this! ” 

With that, he lifted high the steel, and smote 
her in the side, 

And in her blood she sank to earth, and with 
one sob she died. 

Then, for a little moment, all people held 
their breath; 

And through the crowded Forum was still¬ 
ness as of death. 


And in another moment break forth from cne 
and all 

A cry as if the Volscians were coming o’er 
the wall; 

Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Vir- 
ginius tottered nigh, 

And stood before the judgment seat, and held 
the knife on high : 

“ O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of 
the slain, 

By this dear blood I cry to you, do right 
between us twain; 

And e’en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by 
me and mine, 

Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the 
Claudian line! ” 

So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, 
and went his way ; 

But first he cast one haggard glance to where 
the body lay, 

And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, 
and then, with steadfast feet, 

Strode right across the market-place unto the 
Sacred street. 

Then up sprang Appius Claudius: “Stop 
him, alive or dead! 

Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man 
who brings his head! ” 

He looked upon his clients—but none would 
work his will; 

He looked upon his lictors—but they trem¬ 
bled and stood still. 

And as Virginius through the press his way 
in silence cleft, 

Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right 
and left; 

And he hath passed in safety unto his woeful 
home, 

And there taken horse to tell the camp what 
deeds are done in Rome. 



John Milton. 

Author of “ Paradise Lost.” 


HE famous author of the greatest religious epic in the English 
language, was born in Loudon, December 9, 1608, and died 
there November 8, 1674. The sou of a scrivener, he yet 
received a thorough classical education, attending St. Paul’s 
School until 1624 and graduating from Christ’s College, Cam¬ 
bridge, in 1629. His first poetic efforts date from his college 
days, when he wrote his “ Ode on the Nativity,” and his “ Sonnet to 
Shakespeare.” 

For six years after his graduation he devoted himself to literature at 
Horton, near Windsor, producing “ Ad Patrem,” “ L’Allegro,” “ II Pen- 
seroso,” “ Comus ” and “ Lycidas.” In 1638 he made a trip to Italy, but 
was recalled the following year b}^ the Scottish war. “ Paradise Lost,” his 
masterpiece, was conceived in 1640, but was not actually begun till 1658. 
It was completed in 1665 and published 1667. He sold his rights in the 
poem to Samuel Simmons, printer, for twenty-five dollars down and the 
promise of three subsequent payments of the same amount. “ Paradise 
Regained” and “Samson Agonistes ” appeared in 1671. Milton was 
also a forceful writer of English prose. From 1652 he was totally blind. 

The original contract by which Milton signed away his interest in 
one of the most famous poems ever penned, is to be seen in the British 
Museum in London, and, as may well be imagined, is an object of great 
curiosity. If the fame of this production, in which the dazzling genius 
displayed is undisputed, could have been foreseen, it would have brought 
a fortune to its author instead of the paltry sum for which the copyright 
was sold—another instance, of which many are on record, of the under¬ 
value placed upon literary works and the impossibility of guessing 
whether they are destined to great success or doomed to pitiable failure. 

Milton was a stern old Puritan. His nature was cast in a religious 
mould. His mind was foreordained, to use a Calvinistic expression, to 
create the lofty imaginings that awe and dazzle us. His style is seldom 
easy and simple; it is severe, at times stilted, barren of pathos except in 

559 




560 JOHN MILTON. 

rare instances, yet the ideal splendors of his works bum upon our vision 
from first to last. 

A tender and beautiful picture of the poet’s domestic life is furnished 
by the filial love and devotion of his two daughters after his eyes were 
closed on all earthly scenes by irreparable blindness, only, it would seem, 
that his flaming imagination might get a clearer vision and soar to grander 
heights. It was the dutiful regard and patient help of these daughters 
that the “ blind bard ” commemorated in the immortal line: 

“ They also 9erve who only stand and wait/’ 


SELECTIONS FROM 

EVE’S LAMENT. i 

UNEXPECTED stroke, worse than of 
death! [leave 

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus j 
Thee, native soil! these happy walks and : 
shades, 

Fit haunt of gods ? where I had hope to spend, j 
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day 
That must be mortal to us both. O flowers, 
That never will in other climate grow, 

My early visitation, and my last 
At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
From the first opening bud,and gave ye names! 
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial 
fount! 

Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned 
With what to sight or smell was sweet, from 
thee 

How shall I part, and whither wander down 
Into a lower world, to this obscure 
And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air 
Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ? 

THE DEPARTURE FROM PARADISE. 
ADAM TO MICHAEL. 

Gently hast thou told 

Thy message, which might else in telling 
wound, 

And in performing end us. What besides 
Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair 
Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring; 
Departure from this happy place, our sweet 


•PARADISE LOST.” 

Recess, and only consolation left, 

Familiar to our eyes, all places else 
Inhospitable appear and desolate, 

Nor knowing us nor known ; and if by prayer 
Incessant I could hope to change the will 
Of Him who all things can, I would not cease 
To weary him with my assiduous cries. 

But prayer against his absolute decree 
No more avails than breath against the wind, 
Blown stifling back on him that breathes it 
forth ; 

Therefore to his great bidding I submit. 

This most afflicts me, that departing hence, 
As from his face I shall be hid, deprived 
His blessed countenance, here I could frequent 
With worship place by place where he vouch¬ 
safed 

Presence divine, and to my sons relate, 

On this mount he appeared ; under this tree 
Stood visible ; among these pines his voice 
I heard ; here with him at this fountain talked: 
I So many grateful altars I would rear 
Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone 
Of lustre from the brook, in memory 
Or monument to ages, and thereon [flowers. 
Offer sweet smelling gums, and fruits, and 
In yonder nether world where shall I seek 
His bright appearance, or footstep trace ? 

For though I fled him angry, yet, recalled 
To life prolonged and promised race, I now 
Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts 
Of glory, and far off his steps adore. 
Henceforth I learn that to obey is best, 

And love with fear the only God, to walk 







JOHN MILTON. 


A>i 


As in his presence, ever to observe 
His providence, and on him sole depend, 
Merciful over all his works, with good 
Still overcoming evil, and by small [weak 
Accomplishing great things, by things deemed 
Subverting worldly strong and worldly wise 
By simply meek ; that suffering for truth’s 
sake 

Is fortitude to highest victory, 

And to the faithful death the gate of life; 
Taught this by his example, whom I now 
Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest. 

EVE TO ADAM. 

With sorrow and heart’s distress 
Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on ; 

In me is no delay ; with thee to go, 

Is to stay here ; without thee here to stay, 

Is to go hence unwilling ; thou to me 

Art all thiugs under heaven, all places thou, 

Who for my wilful crime art banished hence. 


This further consolation, yet secure, 

I carry hence; though all by me is lost, 

Such favor I unworthy am vouchsafed 
By me the promised Seed shall all restore. 

THE DEPARTURE. 

In either hand the hastening angel caught 
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate 
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
To the subject plain ; then disappeared. 

They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld 
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, 

Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate 
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. 
Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them 
soon ; 

The world was all before them, where to choose 
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. 
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and 
slow, 

Through Eden took their solitary way. 


ON HIS BLINDNESS. 


W HEN I consider how my light is spent | 
Ere half my days, in this dark world 
and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more 
bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true acc »unt,lest he returning chide— 
“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ? ” 


I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not 
need 

Either man’s work, or his own gifts; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his 
state 

Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 
And post o’er land and ocean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait.” 


TO THE LORD-GENERAL CROMWELL. 


C ROMWELL, our chief of men, who 
through a cloud, 

Not of war only, but detractions rude, 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast 
ploughed ; 

And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 
Hast reared God’s trophies, and his work 
pursued, 

While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots 
imbrued, 

36 


And Dunbar field resounds thy praises 
loud, 

And Worcester’s laureate wreath. Yet much 
remains 

To conquer still; Peace hath her victories 
No less renowned than War : new foes arise, 
Threatening to bind our souls with secular 
chains: 

Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their 
maw. 









562 


JOHN MILTON. 


SONG: ON MAY MORNING. 


N OW the bright morning star, day’s har¬ 
binger. [with her 

Comes dancing from the east, and leads 
The flowery May, who from her green lay 
throws 

The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 


Hail, beauteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 


ABDIEL. 

FROM “PARADISE LOST.” 


T HE seraph Abidel, faithful found 

Among the faithless, faithful only he; 
Among innumerable false, unmoved, 
Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, 

His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal; 

Nor number, nor example with him wrought 
To swerve from truth, or change his constant 
mind, 


Though single. From amidst them forth he 
passed, 

Long way through hostile scorn which he 
sustained 

Superior, nor of violence feared aught; 

And with retorted scorn his back he turned 

On those proud towers to swift destruction 
doomed. 


SAMSON AGONISTES. 


SAMSON. 


A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand 
To these dark steps, a little farther on : 
For yonder bank hath choice of sun or 
shade: 

There I am wont to sit, when any chance 
Relieves me from my task of servile toil, 
Daily in the common prison else enjoined me, 
Where I a prisoner, chained, scarce freely draw 
The air imprisoned also, close and damp, 
Unwholesome draught; but here I feel amends, 
The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and 
sweet, 

With day-spring horn: here leave me to 
respire. 

This day a solemn feast the people hold 
To Dagon, their sea-idol, and forbid 
Laborious works: unwillingly this rest 
Their superstition yields me ; hence with leave 
Retiring from the popular noise, I seek 
This unfrequented place to find some ease,— 
Ease to the body some, none to the mind 
From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly 
swarm 

Of hornets armed, no sooner found alone, 


But rush upon me thronging, and present 
Times past, what once I was, and what am now. 

O, wherefore was my birth from Heaven 
foretold 

Twice by an angel, who at last in sight 
Of both my parents all in flames ascended 
From off the altar, where an offering burned. 
As in a fiery column, charioting 
His godlike presence, and from some great act 
Or benefit revealed to Abraham’s race? 

Why was my breeding ordered and prescribed 
As of a person separate to God, 

Designed for great exploits, if I must die 
Betrayed, captived, and both my eyes put 
out, 

Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze; 

To grind in brazen fetters under task 
With this Heaven-gifted strength ? O glorious 
strength, 

Put to the labor of a beast, debased 
Lower than bondslave! Promise was that I 
Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver; 
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him 








JOHN MILTON. 


563 


Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves, 
Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke ! 

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain! 
Blind among enemies, O, worse than chains, 
Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 

Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, 
And all her various objects of delight 
Annulled, which might in part my grief have 
eased, 

Inferior to the vilest now become 


Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me: 
They creep, yet see ; I dark in light exposed 
To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, 
Within doors or without, still as a fool. 

In power of others, never in my own; 

Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than 
half. 

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse, 

Without all hope of day! 


ADAM DESCRIBING EVE. 


M INE eyes he closed, but open left the cell, 
Of fancy, my internal sight, by which 
Abstract, as in a trance, methought I 
saw, 

Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the 
shape 

Still glorious before whom awake I stood; 
Who, stooping, opened my left side, and took 
From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm, 
And life-blood streaming fresh ; wide was the 
wound, 

But suddenly with flesh filled up and healed : 
The rib he formed and fashioned with his 
hands; 

Under his forming hands a creature grew, 
Manlike, but different sex, so lovely fair, 

That what seemed fair in all the world seemed 
now 


Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained 
And in her looks, which from that time infused 
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before, 

And into all things from her air inspired 
The spirit of love and amorous delight. 

She disappeared, and left me dark ; I waked 
To find her, or forever to deplore 
Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure : 
When out of hope, behold her, not far off, 
Such as I saw her in my dream, adorned 
With what all earth or Heaven could bestow 
To make her amiable. On she came, 

Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen, 
And guided by his voice, nor uninformed 
Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites : 

Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye, 
In every gesture dignity and love. 


FROM THE HYMN 

T was the winter wild, 

While the heaven-born child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger 
lies; 

Nature, in awe to him, 

Had doffed her gaudy trim, 

With her great Master so to sympathize; 

It was no season then for her 

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour 

No war or battle’s sound 
Was heard the world around, 

The idle spear and shield were high up 
hung; 


TO THE NATIVITY. 

The hooked chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; 
And kings sat still with awful eye, 

As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord 
was by. 

But peaceful was the night, 

Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of peace upon the earth began: 
The winds, with wonder whist, 

Smoothly the waters kist, 

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 







564 


JOHN MILTON. 


Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 

While birds of calm sit brooding on the 
charmed wave. 

The stars, with deep amaze, 

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 

Bending one way their precious influence; 
And will not take their flight, 

For all the morning light, 

Or Lucifer, that often warned them thence; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid 
them go. 

The shepherds on the lawn, 

Or e’er the point of dawn, 

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; 

Full little thought they, than 
That the mighty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 
keep. 

When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet, 

As never was by mortal finger strook ; 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture too k; 
The air such pleasures loathe to lose, 

With thousand echoes still prolongs each hea¬ 
venly close. 

The oracles are dumb, 

No voice or hideous hum 

Runs through the arched roof in words 
deceiving. 

Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 


With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos 
leaving 

No mighty trance, or breathed spell, 

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro¬ 
phetic cell. 

The lonely mountains o’er 
And the resounding shore, 

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; 
From haunted spring and dale, 

Edged with poplar pale, 

The parting Genius is with sighing sent: 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn. 

The Nymphs, in twilight shade of tangled 
thickets, mourn. 

In consecrated earth, 

And on the holy hearth, 

The Lars and Lemurs moan with midnight 
plaint. 

In urns and altars round, 

A drear and dying sound, 

Affrights the Flamens at their service 
quaint; 

And the chilled marble seems to sweat, 

While each peculiar Power foregoes his 
wonted seat. 

But see, the Virgin blessed 
Hath laid her Babe to rest; 

Time is, our tedious song should here have 
ending: 

Heaven’s youngest-teemed star 
Hath fixed her polished car, 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp 
attending, 

And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order service¬ 
able. 






Douglas William Jerrold. 

Author of “ Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures.” 


ELEBRATED as a humorist, journalist, dramatic and satirical 
writer, Jerrold made a distinct place for himself in the world 
of letters, and half the world has laughed at the irrascible, 
peevish, feminine character he portrayed under the name of 
Mrs. Caudle. His connection with London “Punch” gave 
that humorous journal great popularity. 

Jerrold was born in London in 1803 and died in 1857. Among his 
published works are “ Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures;’’ “ Chronicles of 
Clovernook ; ” “ Time Works Wonders ” and u Bubbles of the Day.” 



MRS. CAUDLE ON LENDING UMBRELLAS. 


B AH ! that’s the third umbrella gone since 
Christmas. What were you to do ? 
Why, let him go home in the rain, to 
be sure. I’m very certain there was nothing 
about him that could spoil! Take cold, in¬ 
deed ! He doesn’t look like one of the sort to 
take cold. Besides, he’d have better taken 
cold than taken your umbrella. Do you hear 
the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear 
the rain? Do you hear it against the win¬ 
dows? Nonsense: you don’t impose upon 
me; you can’t be asleep with such a shower 
as that! Do you hear it, I say ? Oh ! you 
do hear it! Well, that’s a pretty flood, I 
think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring 
all the time out of the house. Pooh ! don’t 
think me a fool, Mr. Caudle: don’t insult me ; 
he return the umbrella? Anybody would 
think you were born yesterday. As if any¬ 
body ever did return an umbrella! 

There: do you hear it ? Worse and worse. 
Cats and dogs! and for six weeks ; always six 
weeks: and no umbrella! I should like to 
know how the children are to go to school to¬ 
morrow. They sha’n’t go through such 
weather; I am determined. No; they shall 


stop at home and never learn anything, (the 
blessed creatures!) sooner than go and get 
wet! And when they grow up, I wonder 
whom they’ll have to thank for knowing 
nothing; whom, indeed, but their father? 
People who can’t feel for their own children 
ought never to be fathers. 

But I know why you lent the umbrella: 
oh, yes, I know very well. I was going out 
to tea at dear mother’s to-morrow ; you knew 
that, and you did it on purpose. Don’t tell 
me; you hate to have me to go there, and 
take every mean advantage to hinder me. 
But don’t you think it, Mr. Caudle; no, sir; 
if it comes down in buckets full, I’ll go all 
the more. No; and I’ll not have a cab! 
Where do you think the money’s to come 
from? You’ve got nice, high notions at that 
club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me six¬ 
teen-pence, at least; sixteen-pence! two-and- 
eight-pence; for there’s back again. Cabs, 
indeed! I should like to know who’s to pay 
for ’em ; for I am sure you can’t, if you go on 
as you do, throwing away your property, and 
beggaring your children, buying umbrellas! 

Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, 

565 





566 


DOUGLAS WILLIAM JERROLD. 


do you hear it? But I don’t care ; I’ll go to 
mother’s to-morrow ; I will; and what’s more 
I’ll walk every step of the way; and you 
know that will give me my death. Don’t call 
me a foolish woman ; ’tis you that’s the fool¬ 
ish man. You know I can’t wear clogs; 
and, with no umbrella, the wet’s sure to give 
me a cold : it always does: but what do you 


care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid 
up for what you care, as I dare say I shall; 
and a pretty doctor’s bill there’ll be. I hope 
there will. It will teach you to lend your 
umbrellas again. I shouldn’t wonder if I 
caught my death: yes, and that’s what you 
lent the umbrella for. Of course ! 


MRS. CAUDLE ON 

HERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you’re in a 
little better temper than you were this 
morning. There, you needn’t begin to 
whistle; people don’t come to bed to whistle. 
But it’s like you; I can’t speak, that you 
don’t, try to insult me. Once I used to say 
you were the best creature living: now, you 
get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I 
won’t let you rest. It’s the only time I have 
to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I’m 
put upon all day long: it’s very hard if I 
cau’t speak a word at night; and it isn’t often 
I open my mouth, goodness knows! 

Because once in your lifetime your shirt 
wanted a button, you must almost swear the 
roof off the house. You didn't swear ? Ha, 
Mr. Caudle, you don’t know what you do 
when you’re in a passion. You were not in a 
passion, weren’t you? Well, then, I don’t 
know what a passion is; and I think I ought 
by this time. I’ve lived long enough with 
you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. 

It’s a pity you haven’t something worse to 
complain of than a button off your shirt. If 
you’d some wives, you would, I know. I’m 
sure I’m never without a needle-and-thread in 
my hand ; what with you and the children, 
I’m made a perfect slave of. And, what’s my 
thanks? Why, if once in your life a button’s 
off your shirt—what do you say “ah ” at? I 
say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three 
times at most. I’m sure, Caudle, no man’s 
buttons in the world are better looked after 
than yours. I only wish I’d kept the shirts 
you had when you were first married! I 
should like to know where were your buttons 
then ? 

Yes, it’s worth talking of! But that’s how 


SHIRT BUTTONS. 

you always try to put me down. You fly into 
a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you 
won’t hear me. That’s how you men always 
will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor 
woman isn’t allowed to get a word in. A nice 
notion you have of a wife, to suppose she’s 
nothing to think of but her husband’s but¬ 
tons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of 
marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew 
what they had to go through! What with 
buttons, and one thing and another! They’d 
never tie themselves up to the best man in the 
world, I’m sure. What would they do, Mr. 
Caudle?—Why, do much better without you, 
I’m certain. 

And it’s my belief, after all, that the button 
wasn’t off the shirt; it’s my belief that you 
pulled it off, that you might have something 
to talk about. Oh, you’re aggravating 
enough, when you like, for anything! All I 
know is, it’s very odd that the button should 
be off the shirt; for I’m sure no woman’s a 
greater slave to her husband’s buttons than I 
am. I only say it’s very odd. 

However, there’s only one comfort; it can’t 
last long. I’m worn to death with your tern' 
per, and shan’t trouble you a great while. 
Ha, you may laugh. And I dare say you 
would laugh ! I’ve no doubt of it! That’s 
your love ; that's your feeling ! I know that 
I’m sinking every day, though I say nothing 
about it. And when I’m gone, we shall see 
how your second wife will look after your 
buttons ! You’ll find out the difference, then. 
Yes, Caudle, you’ll think of me, then ; for 
then, I hope, you’ll never have a blessed but¬ 
ton to your back. 







Oliver Goldsmith. 

Author of “The Vicar of Wakefield.” 


T the University of Dublin, where Burke was his contemporary, 
Goldsmith gave no evidence of the possession of talent, and, 
becoming involved in some irregularity, quitted his studies in 
disgust. He went to Italy, where he took the degree of M. D. 
at Padua or Louvain, and returned to England in 1756, where, 
by the assistance of Dr. Aleigh, a fellow-student, he set up as 
physician among the poor. He did not succeed in his profession, and he 
j is represented as having become usher in the academy of Dr. Miller at 
Peckham. 

During this period he supported himself by contributions to the 
“ Monthly Review.” He became candidate for a medical appointment at 
Coromandel, but was rejected by the College of Surgeons. The clothes 
in which he appeared for examination had been procured on security of 
Mr. Griffiths, editor of the “ Monthly Review,” and as Goldsmith, urged 
by sharp distress, had pawned them, his publisher threatened him with 
the terrors of jail. He had now reached the lowest depths of misery, but 
the dawn was about to break. 

After many failures and sufferings he was rescued from poverty by 
the “Vicar of Wakefield.” His first publication of note, an “Inquiry 
into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe,” was published in 
April, 1759. In December, 1764, “ The Traveler” appeared, and at once 
placed him in the front rank of English authors. Two years after this 
he published the “ Vicar of Wakefield,” which has now charmed four 
generations, and which may be said to have indicated what was his proper 
rank in the literary world. In rapid succession he produced his other 
works : the comedy of the “ Good Natured Man,” in 1767 ; the “ Roman 
History” in 1768 ; and “ The Deserted Village,” the sweetest of all his 
poems, in 1770. 

In 1773 his comedy of “ She Stoops to Conquer ” was produced at 
Covent Garden theatre with great applause. Although now in receipt of 
large sums for his works, he had not escaped from pecuniary embarrass- 





568 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


meilt. He was extravagant, loved fine living, and rich clothes, his 
charities were only bounded by his purse, and he haunted the gaming¬ 
table quite as frequently and with as constant ill-success as of old. In 
March, 1774, he came to Loudon, ill in body and harassed in mind, and 
took to his bed. He died 011 the 4th of April, ten thousand dollars in 
debt, and more sincerely lamented than any literary man of his time. 
Old and infirm people sobbed on the stairs of his apartments, Johnson 
and Burke grieved, and Reynolds, when he heard the news, laid down his 
pencil and left his studio. He was buried in the Temple Church, and a 
monument was erected to him in Westminster Abbey, bearing an in¬ 
scription by Dr. Johnson. 


HOME. 

FROM “THE TRAVELER.” 


B UT where to find the happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to 
know ? 

The shudd’ring tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 

And in his long nights of revelry and ease : 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 

Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 


And thanks his gods for all the good they 
gave. 

S ich is the patiiot’s boast, where’er we roam, 
11 is first, best country, ever is at home. 

And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 

As different good, by art or nature given, 

To different nations makes their blessing even. 


AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 


G OOD people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song; 

And if you find it wond’rous short 
It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there, was a man, 

Of whom the world might say 
That still a godly race he ran, 

Whene’er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 

The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
And curs of low degree. 


This dog and man at first were friends, 
But when a pique began. 

The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Amund from all the neighboring streets 
The wandering neighbors ran, 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
To every Christian eye : 

And while they swore the dog was mad, 
They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That showed the rogues they lied : 

The man recovered of the bite, 

The dog it was that died. 







OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


569 


HOLLAND. 

FROM “THE TRAVELER.” 


T O men of other minds my fancy flies, 

Embosomed in the deep where Holland 
lies, 

Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 

Lift the tall rampire’s artificial pride. 

Onward methinks, and diligently slow, 

The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
While the pent ocean, rising o’er the pile, 


Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 

The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 

A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 

Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 

And industry begets a love of gain. 

Hence all the good from opulence that springs 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings 
Are here displayed. 


MOSES AND THE SPECTACLES. 

FROM “THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.” 


W HEN we returned home, the night was 
dedicated to schemes of future con¬ 
quest. Even in bed my wife kept 
up the usual theme. 

“Well, faith, my dear Charles, between 
ourselves, I think we have made an excellent 
day’s work of it.” 

“ Pretty well! ” cried I, not knowing what 
to say. 

“ What, only pretty well! ” returned she ; 
“ I think it is very well. Suppose the girls 
should come to make acquaintances of taste in 
town. This I am assured of, that London is 
the only place in the world for all manner of 
husbands. Besides, my dear, stranger things 
happen every day; and as ladies of quality 
are so taken with my daughters, what will not 
men of quality be ? Entre nous, I protest I 
like my Lady Blarney vastly; so very oblig¬ 
ing. However, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina 
Amelia Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, 
when they came to talk of places in town, 
you saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, 
my dear, don’t you think I did for my children 
there? ” 

“ Ay,” returned I, not knowing well what 
to think of the matter; “ Heaven grant that 
they may be both the better for it this day three 
months! ” This was one of those observa¬ 
tions I usually made to impress my wife with 


an opinion of my sagacity; for if the girls 
succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled; but 
if anything unfortunate ensued, then it might 
be looked upon as a prophecy. All this con¬ 
versation, however, was only preparatory to 
another scheme, and, indeed, I dreaded as 
much. This was nothing less than that, as 
we were now to hold up our heads a little 
higher in the world, it would be proper to sell 
the colt, which was grown old, at the neigh¬ 
boring fair, and buy us a horse which would 
carry single or double upon an occasion, and 
make a pretty appearance at church or upon 
a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly, but it 
was as stoutly defended. However, as I 
weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till 
at last it was resolved to part with him. 

As the fair happened on the following day, 
I had intentions of going myself; but my wife 
persuaded me that I had got a cold, and 
nothing could prevail upon her to permit me 
from home. 

“ No, my dear,” said she, “ our son Moses is 
a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very 
good advantage ; you know all our great bar¬ 
gains are of his purchasing. He always 
stands out and higgles; and actually tires them 
till he gets a bargain.” 

As I had some opinion of my son’s pru¬ 
dence, I was willing enough to entrust him 





570 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


with this commission ; and the next morning 
I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting 
out Moses for the fair; trimming his hair, 
brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with 
pins. The business of the toilet being over, 
we had, at last, the satisfaction of seeing him 
mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before 
him to bring home groceries in. He had on 
a coat of that cloth called thunder and light¬ 
ning, which, though grown too short, was much 
too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat 
was of gosling green, and his sisters had tied 
his hair with a broad black ribbon. We all 
followed him several paces from the door, 
bawling after him, “ Good luck ! good luck! ” 
till we could ste him no longer. 

He had scarcely gone when Mr. Thornhill’s 
butler came to congratulate us upon our good 
fortune, saying that he had overheard his 
young master mention our names with great 
commendation. 

Good fortune seemed resolved not to come 
alone. Another footman from the same family 
followed, with a card for my daughters, import¬ 
ing that the two ladies had received such pleas¬ 
ing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all, 
that, after a few previous inquiries, they hoped 
to be perfectly satisfied. 

“ Ay,” cried my wife, “I now see it is no 
easy matter to get into one of the families of 
the great; but when once one gets in, then, as 
Moses says, one may go to sleep.” 

To this piece of humor, for she intended it 
for wit, my daughters assented with a loud 
laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her 
satisfaction at this message, that she actually 
put her hand in her pocket, and gave the 
messenger sevenpence halfpenny. 

This was to be our visiting day. The next 
that came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at 
the fair. He brought my little ones a penny¬ 
worth of gingerbread each, which my wife 
undertook to keep for them, and give them 
by little at a time. He brought my daughters 
also a couple of boxes, in which they might 
keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, 
when they got it. My wife was unusually 
fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most 
lucky ; but this by-the-bye. We had still a 
regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude 


behaviour was in some measure displeasing •, 
nor could we now avoid communicating our 
happiness to him, and asking his advice; 
although we seldom follow advice, we were all 
ready enough to ask it. When he read the 
note from the two ladies he shook his head, 
and observed that an affair of this sort de¬ 
manded the utmost circumspection. This air 
of diffidence highly displeased my wife. 

“I never doubted, sir,” cried she, “your 
readiness to be against my daughters and me. 
You have more circumspection than is wanted. 
However, I faucy when we come to ask advice 
we shall apply to persons who have made use 
of it themselves.” 

“Whatever my own conduct may have 
been, madam,” replied he, “is not the pres¬ 
ent question ; though as I have made no use 
of advice myself, I should in conscience give 
it to those that will.” 

As I was apprehensive this answer might 
draw on a repartee, making up by abuse what 
is wanted in wit, I changed the subject by 
seeming to wonder what could keep our son 
so long at the fair, as it was now almost 
nightfall. 

“ Never mind ou" son,” cried my wife; 
“ depend on it he knows what he is about. 
I’ll warrant we’ll never see him sell his hen 
on a rainy day. I have seen him buy such 
bargains as would amaze you. I’ll tell you a 
good story about that, that will make you 
split your sides with laughing. But, as I live, 
yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the 
box at his back.” 

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, 
and sweating under the deal box, which he 
had strapped round his shoulders like a pedlar. 

“Welcome! welcome, Moses! Well, my 
boy, what have you brought us from the fair? ” 

“ I have brought you myself,” cried Moses, 
with a sly look, and resting the box on the 
dresser. 

“Ah, Moses,” cried my wife, “ that we know; 
but where is the horse ? ” 

“I have sold him,” cried Moses, “for three 
pounds five shillings and two pence.” 

“Well done, my good boy,” returned she; 
“ I knew you would touch them off. Between 
ourselves, three pounds five shillings and two- 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


571 


pence is no bad day’s work. Come, let us 
have it, then.” 

“I have brought back no money,” cried 
Moses again; “ I have laid it all out in a bar¬ 
gain, and here it is,” pulling out a bundle 
from his breast; “here they are; a gross of 
green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen 
cases.” 

“ A gross of green spectacles! ” repeated my 
wife in a faint voice. “ And you have parted 
with the colt, and brought us back nothing 
but a gross of green paltry spectacles! ” 

“ Dear mother,” cried the boy, “ why won’t 
you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bar¬ 
gain, or I should not have bought them. The 
silver rims alone will sell for double the 
money.” 

“ A fig for the silver rims ! ” cried my wife, 
in a passion. “ I dare swear they won’t sell 
for above half the money at the rate of broken 
silver, five shillings an ounce.” 

“You need be under no uneasiness,” cried 
I, “about selling the rims, for they are not 
worth sixpence, for I perceive they are only 
copper varnished over.” 

“ What! ” cried my wife, “ not silver! the 
rims not silver! ” 

“ No,” cried I, “ no more silver than your 
saucepan.” 

“ And so,” returned she, “ we have parted 
with the colt, and have only got a gross of 
green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen 


cases ! A murrain take such trumpery. The 
blockhead has been imposed upon, and should 
have known his company better ! ” 

“ There, my dear,” cried I, “ you are wrong; 
he should not have known them at all.” 

“ Marry, hang the idiot! ” returned she, “to 
bring me such stuff. If I had them, I would 
throw them in the fire.” 

“ There again you are wrong, my dear,” 
cried I: “ for though they be copper, we will 
keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you 
know, are better than nothing.” 

By this time the unfortunate Moses was 
undeceived. He now saw that he had been 
imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who 
observing his figure, had marked him for an 
easy prey. I therefore asked him the circum¬ 
stances of his deception. 

He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the 
fair in search of another. A reverend-looking 
man brought him to a tent under pretence of 
having one to sell. “ Here,” continued Moses, 
“ we met another man, very well dressed, who 
desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, 
saying that he wanted money, and would dis¬ 
pose of them for a third of their value. The 
first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, 
whispered to me to buy them, and cautioned 
me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for 
Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as 
finely as they did me; and so at last we were 
persuaded to buy the two gross between us.” 





Rudyard Kipling. 

Writer of Fiction and Verse. 


KIPLING was born in Bombay, India, December 30, 1865. 
He was educated at the United Service College, North Devon, 
England, and became assistant editor of the “ Civic and Mili¬ 
tary Gazette and Pioneer in India,” serving in that capacity 
from 1882 to 1889. He then traveled extensively in China, 
Japan, Africa and Australia. He married Caroline Balestier 
of Brattleboro, Vt., in 1892. Mr. Kipling’s first book was “ Depart¬ 
mental Ditties,” which was soon followed by “ Plain Tales From the 
Hills ” and “ Soldiers Three.” Sixteen or seventeen other works came 
from the author’s pen in quick succession, and won for him international 
fame. 

Mr. Kipling’s style is not notable for its finish, but it has great 
vigor and freshness which have struck a popular chord and won for him 
a host of friends in every English speaking community. “ The Jungle 
Book” and “The Second Jungle Book’’ are especially popular with the 
little folk. Mr. Kipling spends much of his time at the Elm Rotting 
dean, near Brighton, England. His “ Recessional ” is considered his 
finest composition in verse. 

In January, 1902, he published his poem entitled “ The Islanders,” 
insolently criticizing Great Britain for her conduct of the war in South 
Africa. It stirred up a storm of abuse from the British press and public. 



RECESSIONAL HYMN. 

Written on the occasion of Queen Victoria’s jubilee, 1897. 


G OD of our fathers, known of old, 

Lord of our far-flung battle-line. 
Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine— 

Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

572 


The tumult and the shouting dies ; 

The captains and the kings depart; 
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 

An humble and contrite heart. 

Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget—lest we forget! 







RUDYARD KIPLING. 


57 3 


Far-called our navies melt away ; 

On dune and headland sinks the fire ; 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre ! 

Judge of the nations, spare us yet, 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— 
such boasting as the Gentiles use 


Or lesser breeds without the law— 

Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard— 

All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding calls not Free to guard— 
For frantic boast and foolish word, 

Thy mercy in Thy people, Lord ! 


THE FUTURE. 


W HEN Earth’s last picture is painted, 
and the tubes are twisted and dried. 
When the oldest colors have faded, 
and the youngest critic has died, 
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it— 
lie down for an seon or two, 

Till the Master of all Good Workmen shall 
set us to work anew. 

And those that were good shall be happy ; 

they shall sit in a golden chair; 

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with 
brushes of comets’ hair; 


They shall find real saints to draw from— 
Magdalene, Peter and Paul; 

They shall work for an age at a sitting and 
never be tired at all! 

And only the Master shall praise us, and only 
the Master shall blame! 

And no one shall work for money, and no one 
shall work for fame; 

But each for the joy of the working, and 
each, in his separate star, 

Shall draw the Thing as he sees it for the God 
of Things as They Are! 


THE ISLANDERS. 


Y E vaunted your fathomless power and ye 
flaunted your iron pride 
Ere ye fawned on the younger Nations 
for the men who could shoot and ride ! 
Then ye returned to your idols; then ye con¬ 
tented your souls 

With the flannelled fools at the wicket or the 
muddled oafs at the goals. [lie. 

Given to strong delusion, wholly believing a 
Ye saw that the land lay ’fenceless and ye let 
the months go by 

Waiting some easy wonder, hoping some saving 
sign- 

idle—openly idle—in the lee of the forespent 
Line. 

Idle—except for your boasting, and what is 
your boasting worth 

If ye grudge a year of service to the lordliest 
life on Earth ? 


Ancient, effortless, ordered, cycle on cycle 
set— 

Life so long untroubled that ye who inherit 
forget 

It was not made with the mountains, it is not 
one with the deep. 

Men, not gods devised it. Men, not gods 
must keep. 

Arid, aloof, incurious, unthinking, unthank¬ 
ing, gelt— 

Will ye loose your schools to flout them till 
the browbeat columns melt ? 

Will ye pray them or preach them or print 
them or ballot them back from your shore ? 

Will your workmen issue a mandate to bid 
them strike no more? 

Will ye rise and dethrone your rulers? (Be¬ 
cause ye were idle both. 







574 


RUDYARD KIPLING. 


Pride by insolence humbled ? Indolence 
spurred by sloth ?) 

No doubt but ye are the people ; who shall 
make you afraid ? 

Also your gods are many ; no doubt but your 
gods shall aid. 

Idols of greasy altars built for the spirit’s ease ; 

Proud little brazen Baals and talking fetiches ; 

Totems of sept and party and wise wood pave¬ 
ment gods— 

These shall come down to the battle and 
snatch you from under the rods ? 


From the gusty flickering gun roll with view¬ 
less salvos rent, 

And the jutted hail of the bullets that tell not 
whence they were sent ? 

When ye are ringed as with iron, when ye are 
scourged as with whips, 

When the meat is yet in your belly and the 
boast is yet on your lips ; 

When ye go forth at morning and the noon 
beholds you broke— 

Ere ye lie down at even, your remnant, under 
the yoke. 


THE DOVE OF DECCA. 

A Bengal legend tells the pitiful fate of a Hindoo rajah, the last of his race, attacked by 
Mohammedan invaders. He went out bravely to meet them, carrying with him a jfigeon, 
whose return to the j)alace was to be regarded by his family as an intimation of his defeat and 
a signal to put themselves to death and to burn their home. He gained the victory; but 
while he stooped to drink in the river, the bird escaped and flew home. The rajah hurried 
after, but was only in time to throw himself on the pyre. 


T HE freed dove flew to the Rajah’s tower 
Fled from theslaughter of Muslim kings. 
And the thorns have covered the city 
of Gaur— 

Dove — dove. 0 homing dove! 

Little white traitor with woe on thy wings. 

The Rajah of Decca rode under the wall; 

He set in his bosom a dove of flight; 

“ If she returns, be sure that I fall ”— 

Dove — dove. O homing dove! 

Pressed to his heart in the press of the fight. 
The Kings of the North were scattered abroad, 
The Rajah of Decca. he slew them all— 
But from slaughter lie stooped at the ford, 
But the dove—O the dove! — the homing 
dove, 

She thought of her cote on the palace wall. 

She opened her wings and she fluttered away, 
Fluttered away beyond recall. 

She came to the palace at break of day, 

Dove — dove. O homing dove! 

Flying so fast for a kingdom’s fall. 


The Queens of Decca they died in flame, 

Died in the flame of the palace old, 

To save their honor from sack and shame; 
But the dove, the dove, O the homing 
dove! 

She cooed to her young where the smoke- 
wreath rolled ! 

The Rajah of Decca rode fast and fleet, 
Followed as fast as a horse could fly. 

And he saw the palace lay black at his 
feet; 

And the dove—the dove—the homing 
dove, 

Circled alone in the stainless sky. 

So the dove came to the Rajah’s tower, 

Came from the slaughter of Muslim kings, 
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur. 

And Decca was lost for a white dove’s 
wing. 

Dove—dove. 0 homing dove, 

Decca is lost from the roll of the kings! 





Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

Celebrated Poetess. 


HIS poetess was born at Liverpool, September 25, 1793. Her 
father, George Browne, was a Liverpool merchant, of Irish 
extraction; her mother, whose maiden name was Wagner, was 
of mixed Italian and German descent. Felicia was distin¬ 
guished for her beauty and precocity, and at an early age she 
manifested a taste for poetry, in which she was encouraged by 
her mother. Family reverses led to the removal of the Brownes to 
Wales, where the young poetess imbibed a strong passion for nature, 
read books of chronicle and romance, and gained a working knowledge of 
the German, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese languages. 

She also cultivated her excellent musical taste. Her first volume 
was published in 1808, when she was only fifteen years of age, and 
contained a few pieces written about four years earlier. Her second, 
entitled “The Domestic Affections,” appeared in 1812. 

In the same year she married Captain Hemans of the Fourth Regi¬ 
ment, whose health had suffered in the retreat on Corunna, and afterward 
in the Walcheren expedition, and who settled in Italy in 1818. After 
this time they never met again ; their marriage was understood not to 
have been happy. Mrs. Hemans, though in poor health, now devoted 
herself to the education of her children, to reading and writing, and spent 
the rest of her life in North Wales, Lancashire, and later at Dublin, 
where she died May 16, 1835. 

Mrs. Hemans, without great originality or force, is yet sweet, natural 
and pleasing. But she was too fluent and wrote much and hastily; her 
lyrics are her best productions ; her more ambitious poems, especially her 
tragedies, being, in fact, quite insipid. Still, she was a woman of true 
genius, though her range was circumscribed, aud some of her little lyrics, 
“ The Voice of Spring,” “ The Better Land,” “ The Graves of a House¬ 
hold,” “ The Treasures of the Deep,” and “ The Homes of England,” are 
perfect in pathos and sentiment, and will live as long as the English lan¬ 
guage. These are found in almost every school collection, and this early 

575 




576 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 

familiarity with her sweet and simple lyrics has helped to keep her 
memory green. 

Lord Jeffrey pronounced her poetry “ infinitely sweet, elegant and 
tender, touching and contemplative, rather than vehement or overpower¬ 
ing. We do not hesitate to say that she is the most touching and accom¬ 
plished writer of occasional verses that our literature has yet to boast of.” 


THE SPARTANS’ MARCH. 

The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because 
they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the 
Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders. 


? r T''WAS morn upon the Grecian hills, where 
peasants dressed the vines 
Sunlight was on Cithseroll’s rills, Ar¬ 
cadia’s rocks and pines. 

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 
Eurotas wandered by, 

When a sound arose from Sparta’s towers of 
solemn harmony. 

Was it. the hunter’s choral strain, to the wood- 
land-goddess poured? 

Did virgin hands, in Pallas’ fane, strike the 
full-sounding chord? 

But helms were glancing on the stream, spears 
ranged in close array, 

And shields flung back a glorious beam to the 
morn of a fearful day 

And the mountain echoes of the land swelled 
through the deep-blue sky 


While to soft strains moved forth a band of 
men that moved to die. 

They marched not with the trumpet’s blast, 
nor bade the horn peal out 

And the laurel-groves, as on they passed rung 
with no battle shout. 

They asked no clarion’s voice to fire their 
souls with an impulse high 

But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre, 
for the sons of liberty ! 

And still sweet flutes, their path around, sent 
forth iEolian breath: 

They needed not a sterner sound to marshal 
them for death! 

So moved they calmly to their field, thence 
never to return, 

Save bringing back the Spartan shield, or on 
it proudly borne! 


THE HOUR OF DEATH. 


L EAVES have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north 
wind’s breath, 

And stars to set—but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O 
Death! 

Day is for mortal care, 

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous 
hearth, 

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
prayer— 

But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 


The banquet hath its hour, 

Its feverish hour of mirth and song, and 
wine: 

There comes a day for grief’s overwhelming 
power. 

A time for softer tears—but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 

May look like things too glorious for de¬ 
cay, 

And smile at thee—but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their 
prey. 






FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 


577 


Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind’s 
breath, 

And stars to set—but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O 
Death! 

We know when moons shall wane, 

When summer-birds from far shall cross 
the sea, 

When Autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden 
grain— 

But who shall teach us when to look for 
thee? 

Is it when Spring’s first gale 

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? 

They have one season —all are ours to die! 


Thou art where billows foam, 

Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art 
there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets 
rend 

The skies, and swords beat down the princely 
crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind’s 
breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O 
Death! 


THE GREEKS RETURN FROM BATTLE. 


1 0! they come, they come! garlands for 
every shrine! 

Strike lyres to greet them home! bring 
roses, pour ye wine ! 

Swell, swell the Dorian flute, through the 
blue, triumphant sky! 

Let the Cittern’s tone salute the sons of 
victory. 

With the offering of bright blood, they have 
ransomed hearth and tomb, 

Vineyard, and field, and flood; — Io! they 
come, they come! 

Sing it where olives wave, and by the glitter¬ 
ing sea, 

And o’er each hero’s grave, — sing, sing, the 
land is free! 

Mark ye the flashing oars, and the spears that 
light the deep! 


How the festal sunshine pours, where the 
lords of battle sweep ! 

Each hath brought back his shield ; — maid, 
greet thy lover home! 

Mother, from that proud field, — Io! thy son 
is come! 

Who murmured of the dead? Hush, boding 
voice! AVe know 

That many a shining head lies in its glory 
low. 

Breathe not those names to-day! They shall 
have their praise ere long, 

And a power all hearts to sway, in ever-burn¬ 
ing song. 

But now shed flowers, pour wine, to hail the 
conquerors home, 

Bring wreaths for every shrine,—Io! they 
come, they come! 


THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 


“ Sing aloud 

Old song, the precious music of the heart.” 


S ING them upon the sunny hills. 

When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 
Is loveliest to the sight. 

37 


Sing them along the misty moor, 

Where ancient hunters roved ; 

And swell them through the torrent’s roar— 
The songs our fathers loved : 







578 


FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 


The songs their souls rejoiced to hear, 
When harps were in the hall, 

And each proud note made lance and spear 
Thrill on the bannered wall; 

The songs that through our valleys green, 
Sent on from age to age, 

Like his own river’s voice, have been 
The peasant’s heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 
Is filled with plumy sheaves; 

The woodman, by the starlight pale 
Cheered homeward through the leaves: 
And unto them the glancing oars 
A joyous measure keep, 

Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 
Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be!—a light they shed 
O’er each old fount and grove, 

A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 


Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on ; 

And link high thoughts to every glen 
Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth, 
When evening fires burn clear, 

And in the fields of harvest mirth, 

And on the hills of deer: 

So shall each unforgotten word, 

When far those loved ones roam, 

Call back the heart which once it stirred 
To childhood’s holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 
Shall whisper in the strain ; 

The voices of their household band 
Shall sweetly speak again; 

The heathery heights iu vision rise, 

Where like the stag they roved;— 

Sing to your sons those melodies, 

The songs your fathers loved. 


LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 


T HE breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed; 

And the heavy night hung dark 
The hills and waters o’er, 

When a band of exiles moored their bark 
On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
And the trumpet that sings of fame; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear; — 

They shook the depths of the desert’s gloom 
With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea; [rang 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods 
To the anthem of the free. 


The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave’s foam ; 

And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 
This was their welcome home! 

There were men with hoary hair, 

Amidst that pilgrim band : 

Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood’s land ? 

There was woman’s fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love’s truth ; 

There was manhood’s brow serenely high, 
And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 

The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war ? — 
They sought a faith’s pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod : [found — 

They have left unstained what there they 
Freedom to worship God! 







Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

Renowned Poet. 


HELLEY was a brilliant light in the literary firmament, and 
although destined soon to set, the beams of his glowing genius 
still linger and excite admiration akin to wonder. Leigh Hunt 
says concerning his “ Ode to a Skylark,” “ a little song yet it 
fills all heaven.’’ Few men ever possessed the poetic gift in a 
higher degree. 

Shelley was born in Sussex county, England, in August, 1792, and 
lost his life by drowning at Leghorn, Italy, in July, 1822 ; yet this youth 
whose career was cut off at the early age of thirty left an imperishable name 
in the world of letters. His poetry was inspired by an ardent passion for 
truth and an ardent love of humanity. 

Shelley’s most celebrated productions are “ Queen Mab,” “ The 
Revolt of Islam,” “ Rosalind and Helen,” “ Prometheus Unbound,” and 
“ Adonais.” Of Shelley it might have been said, as of his own skylark : 

“ And singing still dost soar, 

And soaring ever singeth.” 



THE CLOUD. 

The exquisite beauty, delicate fancy and peerless imagination exhibited in this poem 
have rendered it one of the classics, a permanent, immortal production, in English literature. 
If Shelley had lived he might have become the master poet of modern times. His exalted 
rank is unquestioned. 


I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting 
flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
In their noonday dreams, 

From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken 

The sweet buds every one, 

When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast. 
As she dances about the sun. 

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under; 


And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
And their great pines grown aghast; 
And all the night ’tis my pillow white, 
While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 
Lightning, my pilot, sits; 

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 
It struggles and howls at fits; 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 
This pilot is guiding me. 


579 





580 


PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 


Lured by the love of the genii that move 
In the depths of the purple sea; 

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 
Over the lakes and the plains, 

Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream, 

The spirit he loves, remains, 

And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue 
smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
And his burning plumes outspread, 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack 
When the morning star shines dead, 

As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 

An eagle alit, one moment may sit 
In the light of its golden wings; 

And when sunset may breathe from the lit 
sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the depth of heaven above, 

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 
As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 
Whom motals call the moon, 

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor, 
By the midnight breezes strewn ; 

And whenever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear, 

May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin 
roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer, 

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 


When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas. 

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
high, 

And each paved with the moon and thee. 

I bind the sun’s throng with a burning zone, 
And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl; 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 
Over a torrent sea, 

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 

The triumphal arch through which I march, 
With hurricane, fire, and snow, 

When the powers of the air are chained to my 
chair, 

Is the million-colored bow; 

The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove, 
While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of the earth and water, 
And the nursling of the sky ; 

I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shore; 

I change, but I cannot die. 

For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 
The pavilion of heaven is bare, 

And the winds and sunbeams, with their con¬ 
vex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from 
the tomb, 

I rise and upbuild it again. 


TO 

S WIFTLY walk over the western wave, 
Spirit of Night! 

Out of the misty eastern cave, 

Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 

Which make thee terrible and dear,— 
Swift be thy flight! 


NIGHT. 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 
Star-inwrought 1 

Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out; 

Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand— 
Come, long-sought! 









FERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 


581 


When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 

When night rode high, and the dew was 
gone, 

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 

And the weary Day turned to her rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 


Murmured like a noontide bee, 

Shall I nestle near thy side? 

AYouldst thou me?—and I replied, 

“ No, not thee 1 ” 

Death will come when thou art dead, 
Soon, too soon— 

Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night— 

Swift be thine approaching flight, 
Come soon, soon! 


TO A SKYLARK. 


H AIL to thee, blithe spirit!— 

Bird thou never wert,— 

That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest, 

Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
singest. 

In the golden lighting 
Of the sunken sun, 

O’er which clouds are brightening, 
Thou dost float and run ; 

Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale, purple even 
Melts around thy flight; 

Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill 
delight. 

What thou art we know not: 

What is most like thee ? 

From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 

Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought [not; 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded 


Like a high-born maiden 
In a palace tower, 

Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 

With music sweet as love, which overflows 
her bower; 

Like a glow-worm golden 
In a dell of dew, 

Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 

Among the flowers and grass which screen it 
from the view; 

Like a rose embowered 
In its own green leaves, 

By warm winds deflowered, 

Till the scent it gives 

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy¬ 
winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 

Rain-awakened flowers, 

All that ever was 

Joyous and fresh and clear thy music doth 
surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine; 

I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 





582 


PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 


Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphant chant, 

Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt— 

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden 
want. 

What objects are the fountains 
Of thy happy strain ? 

What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain? 

What love of thine own kind ? What ignor¬ 
ance of pain ? 

With thy clear, keen joyance 
Languor cannot be; 

Shadow of annoyance 
Never come near thee : 

Thou lovest: but ne’er knew love's sad 
satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 

Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal 
stream. 


We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not; 

Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of sad¬ 
dest thought, 

Yet if we could scorn 
Hate and pride and fear, 

If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 

I know not how thy joy we ever should come 
near. 

Better than all measures 
Of delightful sound, 

Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the 
ground. 

Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know, 

Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 

The world should listen then as I am listen¬ 
ing now. 




Algernon Charles Swinburne. 

Poet of Passion. 


HIS famous English poet, whose genius is both brilliant and 
audacious, was born in London, April 5, 1837. The 
son of Admiral Swinburne and Lady Henrietta Ashburn- 
ham, he was given every possible advantage in youth, being 
educated in France and later at Eton and at Oxford. He left 
the university, however, without taking a degree. His tastes 
were literary and artistic, and these, together with his associations, 
induced him to make literature his vocation. He soon acquired a reputa¬ 
tion for the facility of his versification and for the thinly veiled love 
passion of his verse. 

He first attracted attention in 1861, when he published “ The Queen 
Mother ” and “ Rosamond.’’ These first successes were followed in 1864 
by “ Atalanta in Calydon ; ’’ “ Chastelard, a Tragedy,” 1865 ; and “ Poems 
and Ballads,” 1866. These last poems were severely censured, and Swin¬ 
burne withdrew the edition. He, however, reprinted the book the same 
year as “ Laus Veneris and Other Poems and Ballads.” Since then 
Swinburne has published volumes of prose or verse almost yearly, at 
times issuing two or three books in a year. His prose for the most part 
is in the form of literary studies. He has also written several strong 
tragedies. 



WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING. 


W HEN the hounds of spring are on win¬ 
ter’s traces, 

The mother of months in meadow or 
plain 

Fills the shadows and windy places 
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 

And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian ships and the foreign 
faces; 

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 


Come with bows bent and with emptying of 
quivers, 

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 

With a noise of winds and many rivers, 

With a clamor of waters, and with might; 
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, 

Over the splendor and speed of thy feet! 

For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
shivers, 

Round the feet of the day and the feet of 
the night. 


583 






584 


ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 


Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to 
her, 

Fold our hands round her knees and cling; 

O that man’s heart were as fire and could 
spring to her, 

Fire, or the strength of the streams that 
spring! 

For the stars and the winds are unto her 

As raiment, as songs of the harp player ; 

For the risen stare and the fallen cling to 
her, 

And the southwest-wind and the west-wind 
sing. 

For winter’s rains and ruins are over, 

And all the season of snows and sins; 

The days dividing lover and lover, 

The light that loses, the night that wins ; 

And time remembered is grief forgotten, 

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 

And in green underwood and cover 
Blossom by blossom the spring begins! 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 

Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 


The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; 

And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 

And the oat is heard above the lyre, 

And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root, 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 
Fleeter of foot than the fleet foot kid, 
Follows with dancing and fills with delight 
The Maenad and the Bassarid; 

And soft as lips that laugh and hide, 

The laughing loaves of the trees divide, 

And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Baachanal’s hair 
Over her eyebrows shading her eyes; 

The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 
The wild vine slips with the weight of its 
leaves, 

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 


BABY’S FEET. 


It may be said without question that English poetry can furnish few gems so delicate and 
captivating as these exquisite lines. They are more than fanciful; they are tender, beautiful 
and full of meaning. 


A BABY’S feet, like sea-shell pink, 

Might tempt, should Heaven see meet, 
As angel’s lips to kiss, we think, 

A baby’s feet. 

Like rose-hued sea flowers toward the heat 
They stretch and spread and wink 


Their ten soft buds that part and meet, 
On baby’s feet. 

No flower bells that expand and shrink 
Gleam half so heavenly sweet 
As shine on life’s untrodden brink, 

A baby’s feet. 


THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 


I WILL go back to the great sweet mother— 
Mother and lover of men, the sea. 

I will go down to her, I and none other, 
Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with 
me, 

Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. 

O fair white mother, in days long past 
Bom without sister, born without brother, 

Set free my soul as thy soul is free. 


O fair green-girdled mother of mine, [rain, 
Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the 
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, 
Thy large embraces are keen like pain. 
Save me and hide me with all thy waves, 

Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, 
Those pure cold populous graves of thine— 
Wrought without hand in a world without 
stain. 







ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE- 


585 


I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, 
Change as the winds change, veer in the 
tide; 

My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, 

I shall rise with thy rising, with thee sub¬ 
side ; 

Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were— 
Filled full with life to the eyes and hair. 

As a rose is full filled to the rose-leal tips 
With splendid summer and perfume and 
pride. 


This woven raiment of nights and days, 

Were it once cast off and unwound from 
me, 

Naked and glad would I walk in my ways, 
Alive and aware of thy waves and thee; 

Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, 

Clothed with the greeu, and crowned with the 
foam, 

A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, 

A vein in the heart of the streams of the 
sea. 


KISSING HER HAIR. 


K ISSING her hair, I sat against her feet; 
Wove and unwove it—wound, and 
found it sweet; 

Made fast therewith her hands, drew down 
her eyes, 

Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim 
skies; 

With her own tresses bound, and found her 
fair— 

Kissing her hair. 


| Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me— 
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea: 
j What pain could get between my face aud 
hers? 

What new sweet thing would love not relish 
worse ? 

Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me 
there— 

Kissing her hair. 


A MATCH. 


I F love were what the rose is, 
And I were like the leaf, 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing weather 
Brown fields or flowery closes, 
Green pleasure or gray grief; 

If love were what the rose is, 

And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are, 

And love were like the tune. 
With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle. 
With kisses glad as birds are, 

That get sweet rain at noon ; 

If I were like the words are, 

And love were like the tune. 


If you were life, my darling, 

And I, your love, were death, 
We’d shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 
With daffodil and starling, 

And hours of fruitful breath ; 

If you were life, my darling, 

And I, your love, were death, 

If you were thrall to sorrow, 

And I were page to joy, 

We’d play for lives and seasons. 
With loving looks and treasons. 
And tears of night and morrow. 
And laughs of maid and boy ; 

If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy. 








George Eliot. 

Distinguished Novelist. 


HIS celebrated author’s maiden name was Mary Ann Evans. 
She was the daughter of Robert Evans, a surveyor, and was 
born at Griff, near Nuneaton, November 22, 1819. Her mind 
was easily engrossed and entertained with metaphysical sub¬ 
jects even when she was quite young, and this mental charac¬ 
teristic can be discerned in greater or less degree in nearly all 
her writings. As she grew to womanhood her intellectual power asserted 
itself, and she essayed to cope with subjects the most abstruse and difficult 
of understanding. 

In 1846 she translated Strauss’ “ Life of Jesus,” which was followed 
in 1853 by Fenerbach’s “ Essence of Christianity.” One would hardly 
have predicted that a lady with such scholarly attainments would turn 
her thoughts toward the lighter department of literature which comes 
under the name of fiction. She did, however, publish in “ Blackwood’s 
Magazine ” a series of stories entitled “ Scenes of Clerical Life,” in 
which she first took the masculine name of George Eliot. 

In 1858 she gained a wide and enviable reputation by her “ Adam 
Bede,” a story of north country English life that brought her into imme¬ 
diate prominence. This was followed by “ The Mill on the Floss,” 
“Silas Mamer,” “ Romola,” “Felix Holt,” “ Middlemarch,” “Daniel 
Derouda,” and other works, all of which sustained her reputation, and 
had a large circulation. Their originality, profound thought and masterly 
diction are universally admitted. 

Her unconventional alliance with Mr. Lewes, an author and writer of 
some repute, led to a good deal of comment, but can be accounted for from 
the fact that her views and opinions were always of the advanced kind, 
and she had little veneration for the customs and usages of society, con¬ 
sidering that to a large degree she was privileged to be a law unto her¬ 
self. After the death of Mr. Lewes she was married to a Mr. Cross 
in the spring of 1880, and died at Chelsea, December 22, of the same 
year. She holds first place among analytical novelists. 




GEORGE ELIOT. 


587 


A PASSAGE AT ARMS. 

FROM “ADAM BEDE.” 


B ARTLE MASSEY returned from the 
fire-place, where he had been smoking 
his first pipe in quiet, and broke the 
silence by saying, as he thrust his forefinger 
into the canister, “ Why, Adam, how hap¬ 
pened you not to be at church on Sunday ? 
answer me that, you rascal. The authem 
went limping without you. Are you going to 
disgrace your schoolmaster in his old age ? ” 
“No, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. “Mr. 
and Mrs. Poyser can tell you where I was. I 
was in no bad company.” 

“ She’s gone, Adam, gone to Snowfield,” 
said Mr. Poyser, reminded of Dinah for the 
first time this evening. “ I thought you’d 
ha’ persuaded her better. Nought ’ud hold 
her but she must go yesterday forenoon. The 
missis has hardly got over it. I thought she’d 
ha’ no sperrit for th’ harvest supper.” 

Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several 
times since Adam had come in, but she had 
had “ no heart ” to mention the bad news. 

“ What! ’ ’ said Bartle, with an air of dis¬ 
gust. “Was there a woman concerned? 
Then I give you up, Adam.” 

“ But it’s a woman you’ve spoke well on, 
Bartle,” said Mr. Poyser. “ Come, now, you 
canna draw back ; you said once as women 
would n’t ha’ been a bad invention if they’d 
all been like Dinah.” 

“I meant her voice, man—I meant her 
voice, that was all,” said Bartle. “ I can 
bear to hear her speak without wanting to put 
wool in my ears. As for other things, I 
dare say she’s like the rest o’ the women— 
thinks two and two’ll come to make five, if 
she cries and bothers enough about it.” 

“Ay, ay!” said Mrs. Poyser, “one ’ud 
think, an’ hear some folks talk, as the men 
war’ cute enough to count the corns in a bag 
o’ wheat wi’ only smelling at it. They can 
see through a barn door, they can. Perhaps 
that’s the reason they can see so little this 
side on’t.” 

M artin Poyser shook with delighted laughter, 
and winked at Adam as much as to say the 
school-master was in for it now. 


“ Ah ! ” said Bartle, sneeringly, “ the women 
are quick enough, they’re quick enough. They 
know the rights of a story before they hear it, 
and can tell a man what his thoughts are 
before he knows ’em himself.” 

“Like enough,”said Mrs. Poyser, “for the 
men are mostly so slow, their thoughts over¬ 
run ’em an’ they can only catch ’em by the 
tail. I can count a stocking-top while a man’s 
getting’s tongue ready ; an’ when he outs wi’ 
his speech at last, there’s little broth to be 
made on’t. It’s your dead chicks takes the 
longest hatchin’. However, I’m not denyin’ 
the women are foolish ; God Almighty made 
’em to match the men.” 

“ Match! ” said Bartle; “ ay, as vinegar 
matches one’s teeth. If a man says a word, 
his wife’ll match it with a contradiction; if 
he’s a mind for hot meat, his wife’ll match it 
with cold bacon; if he laughs, she’ll match 
him with whimperings. She’s such a match 
as th’ horse-fly is to th’ horse; she’s got the 
right venom to sting him with—the right 
venom to sting him with.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, “I know what 
the men like—a poor soft, as ’ud simper at 
’em like the pictur o’ the sun, whether they 
did right or wrong, an’ say thank you for a 
kick, an’ pretend she didna know which end 
she stood uppermost, till her husband told her. 
That’s what a man wants in a wife, mostly; 
he wants to make sure o’ one fool as’ll tell 
him he’s wise. But there’s some men can do 
wi’ out that—they think so much o’ them¬ 
selves a’ready ; an’ that’s how it is there’s old 
bachelors.” 

“Come, Craig,” said Mr. Poyser, jocosely, 
“ you mun get married pretty quick, else you’ll 
be set down for an old bachelor ; an’ you see 
what the women’ll think on you,” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate 
Mrs. Poyser, and setting a high value on his 
own compliments, “ I like a cleverish woman 
—a woman o’ sperrit—a managing woman.” 

“You’re out there, Craig,” said Bartle, 
dryly; you’re out there. You judge o’ your 
garden-stuff on abetter plan thau that; you 





588 


GEORGE ELIOT. 


pick the things for what they can excel in— 
for what they can excel in. You don’t value 
your peas for their roots, or your carrots for 
their flowers. Now, that’s the way you should 
choose women ; their cleverness’ll never come 
to much—never come to much; but they 
make excellent simpletons, ripe and strong- 
flavored.” 

“ What dost say to that?” said Mr. Poyser, 
throwing himself back and looking merrily at 
his wife. 


“ Say! ” answered Mrs. Poyser, with danger¬ 
ous fire kindling in her eye ; “ why, I say as 
some folks’ tongues are like the clocks as run 
on strikin’, not to tell you the time o’ the day, 
but because there’s suminat wrong i’ their own 
inside.” 

Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought 
her rejoinder to a further climax, if everyone’s 
attention had not at this moment been called 
to the other end of the table. 


GODFREY AND DUNSTAN. 


S OME one opened the door at the other 
end of the room, and Nancy felt that it 
was her husband. She turned from 
the window with gladness in her eyes, for the 
wife’s chief dread was stilled. 

“Dear, I’m so thankful you’re come,” she 
said, going towards him. “ I began to get”— 
She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was lay¬ 
ing down his hat with trembling hands, and 
turned towards her with a pale face and a 
strange, unanswering glance, as if he saw her 
indeed, but saw her as part of a scene invisi¬ 
ble to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, 
not daring to speak again ; but he left the 
touch unnoticed, and threw himself into his 
chair. 

Jane was already at the door with the his¬ 
sing urn. “ Tell her to keep away, will you ? ” 
said Godfrey ; and when the door was closed 
again he exerted himself to speak more dis¬ 
tinctly. 

“ Sit down, Nancy—there,” he said, point¬ 
ing to a chair opposite him. “ I came back 
as soon as I could to hinder anybody’s tell¬ 
ing you but me. I’ve had a great shock— 
but I care most about the shock it’ll be to 
you.” 

“ It isn’t father and Priscilla? ” said Nancy, 
with quivering lips, clasping her hands to¬ 
gether tightly on her lap. 

“No, it’s nobody living, said Godfrey, un¬ 
equal to the considerate skill with which he 
would have wished to make his revelation. 
“ It’s Dunstan—my brother Dunstan, that we 
lost sight of sixteen years ago. We’ve found 
him,—found his body—his skeleton.” 


The deep dread Godfrey’s look had created 
in Nancy made her feel these words a relief. 
She sat in comparative calmness to hear what 
else he had to tell. He went on : 

“ The stone pit has gone dry suddenly,— 
from the draining, I suppose ; and there he 
lies—has lain for sixteen years, wedged be¬ 
tween two great stones. There’s his watch 
and seals, and there’s my gold-handled hunt¬ 
ing whip, with my name on. He took it 
away, without my knowing, the day he went 
hunting on Wildfire, the last time he was 
seen.” 

Godfrey paused! it was not so easy to say 
what came next. “ Do you think he drowned 
himself? ” said Nancy, almost wondering 
that her husband should be so deeply shaken 
by what had happened all those years ago to 
an unloved brother, of whom worse things 
had been augured. 

“ No, he fell in,” said Godfrey, in a low but 
distinct voice, as if he felt some deep mean¬ 
ing in the fact. Presently he added : “ Dun¬ 
stan was the man that robbed Silas Marner.” 

The blood rushed to Nancy’s face and neck 
at this surprise and shame, for she had been 
bred up to regard even a distant kinship with 
crime as a dishonor. 

“O Godfrey!” she said, with compassion 
in her tone, for she had immediately reflected 
that the dishonor must be felt more keenly by 
her husband. 

“ There was money in the pit,” he con¬ 
tinued, “all the weaver’s money. Every¬ 
thing’s been gathered up, and they have taken 
the skeleton to the Rainbow. But I came 





GEORGE ELIOT. 


589 


back to tell you. There was no hindering it; 
you must know.” 

He was silent, looking on the ground for 
two long minutes. Nancy would have said 
some words of comfort under this disgrace, 
but she refrained, from an instinctive sense 
that there was something behind,—that God¬ 
frey had something else to tell her. Pre¬ 
sently he lifted his eyes to her face, and kept 
them fixed on her, as he said : 

“ Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner 
or later. When God Almighty wills it, our 
secrets are found out. I’ve lived with a 
secret on my mind, but I’ll keep it from you 
no longer. I wouldn’t have you know it by 
somebody else, and not by me—I wouldn’t 
have you find it out after I’m dead. I’ll tell 
you now. It’s been ‘ I will ’ and ‘ I won’t ’ 
with me all my life ; I’ll make sure of myself 
now.” 

Nancy’s utmost dread had returned. The 
eyes of the husband and wife met with an 
awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended 
affection. 

“Nancy,” said Godfrey slowly, “when I 
married you, I hid something from you,— 
something I ought to have told you. That 
woman Marner found dead in the snow— 
Eppie’s mother—that wretched woman—was 
my wife; Eppie is my child.” 

He paused, dreading the effects of his con¬ 
fession. But Nancy sat quite still, only that 
her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his. 
She was pale and quiet as a meditative statue, 
clasping her hands on her lap. 

“ You’ll never think the same of me again,” 
said Godfrey after a little while, with some 
tremor in his voice. She was silent. 

“ I oughtn’t to have left the child un¬ 
owned ; I oughtn’t to have kept it from you. 
But I couldn’t bear to give you up, Nancy. 
I was led away into marrying her; I suffered 
for it.” 

Still Nancy was silent, looking down ; and 
he almost expected that she would presently 
get up and say she would go to her father’s. 
How could she have any mercy for faults 
that seemed so black to her, with her simple, 
severe notions ? 

But at last she lifted up her eyes to his 


again and spoke. There was no indignation 
in her voice; only deep regret. 

“ Godfrey, if you had told me this six 
years ago, we could have done some of our 
duty by the child. Do you think I’d have 
refused to take her in, if I’d known she was 
yours ? ” 

At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitter¬ 
ness of an error that was not simply futile, 
but had defeated its own end. He had not 
measured this wife with whom he had lived 
so long. But she spoke again, with more 
agitation. 

“ And—oh, Godfrey—if we’d had her from 
the first, if you’d taken to her as you ought, 
she’d have loved me for her mother—and 
you’d been happier with me; I could better 
have bore my little baby dying, and our life 
might have been more like what we used to 
think it ’ud be.” 

The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. 

“ But you wouldn't have married me then, 
Nancy, if I’d told you,” said Godfrey, urged, 
in the bitterness of his self-reproach, to prove 
to himself that his conduct had not been 
utter folly. “You may think you would 
now, but you wouldn’t then. With your 
pride and your father’s, you’d have hated 
having anything to do with me after the 
talk there’d been.” 

“I can’t say what I should have done 
about that, Godfrey. I should never have 
married anybody else. But I wasn’t worth 
doing wrong for; nothing is in this world. 
Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand; 
not even our marrying wasn’t, you see.” 
There was a faint, sad smile on Nancy’s face 
as she said the last words. 

“I’m a worse man than you thought I was, 
Nancy,” said Godfrey rather tremulously. 
“ Can you forgive me ever ? ” 

“ The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey. 
You’ve made it up to me; you’ve been good 
to me for fifteen years. It’s another you did 
the wrong to ; and I doubt it can never be all 
made up for.” 

“ But we can take Eppie now,” said God¬ 
frey. “ I won’t mind the world knowing at 
last. I’ll be plain and open for the rest o’ 
my life.” 




590 


GEORGE ELIOT. 


“ It’ll be different coming to us, now she’s 
grown up,” said Nancy, shaking her head 
sadly. 

“But it’s your duty to acknowledge her 
and provide for her; and I’ll do my part 


by her, and pray to God Almighty to make 
her love me.” 

“ Then we’ll go together to Silas Marner’s 
this very night, as soon as everything’s quiet 
at the Stone Pits.” 


DINAH THE METHODIST. 

FROM “ADAM BEDE.” 


S EVERAL of the men followed Ben’s 
lead, and the traveller pushed his horse 
on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather 
quickly, and in advance of her companions, 
toward the cart under the maple tree. While 
she was near Seth’s tall figure she looked 
short, but when she had mounted the cart, 
and was away from all comparison, she seemed 
above the middle height of woman, though in 
reality she did not exceed it—an effect which 
was due to the slimness of her figure, and the 
simple line of her black stuff dress. 

The stranger was struck with surprise as 
he saw her approach and mount the cart— 
surprise, not so much for the feminine delicacy 
of her appearance, as at the total absence of 
self-consciousness in her demeanor. He had 
made up his mind to see her advance with a 
measured step, and a demure solemnity of 
countenance; he had felt sure that her face 
would be mantled with a smile of conscious 
saintship, or else charged with denunciatory 
bitterness. He knew but two types of Meth¬ 
odist— the ecstatic and the bilious. 

But Dinah walked as simply as if she were 
going to market, and seemed as unconscious 
of her outward appearance as a little boy; 
there was no blush, no tremulousness, which 
said, “I know you think me a pretty woman, 
too young to preach ; ” no casting up or down 
of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no 
attitude of the arms, that said, “ But you 
must needs think of me as a saint.” 


She held no book in her ungloved hands, 
but let them hang down lightly crossed before 
her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on 
the people. There was no keenness in her 
eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love 
than making observations ; they had the liquid 
look which tells that the mind is full of what 
it has to give out, rather than impressed by 
external objects. 

The eyebrows, of the same color as the hair, 
were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled ; 
the eyelashes, though no darker, were long 
and abundant; nothing was left blurred or 
unfinished. 

It was one of those faces that make one 
think of white flowers with light touches of 
color on their pure petals. The eyes had no 
peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression; 
they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely 
loving, that no accusing scowl, no light 
sneer, could help melting away before their 
glance. 

Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he 
were clearing his throat in order to come to 
a new understanding with himself; Chad 
Cranage lifted up his leather skull-cap, and 
scratched his head; and Wiry Ben wondered 
how Seth had the pluck to think of court¬ 
ing her. 

“ A sweet woman,” the stranger said to him¬ 
self, “ but surely Nature never meant her for 
a preacher.” 





William Cowper. 

Noted for Hymns and Poems. 


OWPER was born in Hertfordshire in 1731. His father was one 
of the chaplains to George II. and nephew to Lord Chancellor 
Cowper. His health was frail, and when, after being admitted to 
the bar, he was appointed reading clerk in the House of Lords, 
his timidity was so great that he refused to appear. He soon 
became actually insane, and was removed to an asylum, and 
during the rest of his life was subject to returns of mental alienation. 
His attention being turned to poetry he contributed sixty-eight hymns 
to a collection made by Rev. John Newton, called the “ Olney Hymns.” 

The ballad of “John Gilpin ” gave him a wide renown. It was read 
to crowded audiences in London by Henderson, the actor. “ The Task,” 
1785, his longest original poem, gained general popularity. He next 
translated Homer into blank verse. His last poem, “The Castaway,” is 
a picture of his own sad fate. He died April 25, 1800. In his poetry he 
was one of the first to break away from the metrical despotism of Pope, 
being persuaded to do so by his friend and neighbor, Lady Austin, at 
whose instigation he wrote some of his best poems. 

One of Cowper’s famous productions is the poem written when he 
received his mother’s portrait. He had fits of melancholy and was sev¬ 
eral times over the line of insanity. 



MY MOTHER’S PICTURE. 


O THAT those lips had language! Life 
has passed 

With me but roughly since I heard 
thee last. 

Those lips are thine,—thy own sweet smile I 
see, 

The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 

“ Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears 
away! ” 


The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,— 

The art that baffles time’s tyrannic claim 
To quench it!) here shines on me still the 
same. 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear! 

O welcome guest, though unexpected here! 
Who bid’st me honor with an artless song, 
Affectioriate, a mother lost so long. 


591 





592 


WILLIAM COWPER. 


I will obey,—not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 

And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,— 
Shall steep me in Elysian revery, 

A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother! when I learned that thou wast ; 
dead, 

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,— ! 

Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun ? | 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a I 
kiss j 

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— 

Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes. 

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; 

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 

But was it such ?—It was.—Where thou art ! 
gone 

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; j 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, i 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more. | 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my con- I 
cera. 

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I wished I long believed, 

And, disappointed still, was still deceived,— 
By expectation every day beguiled, 

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 

Thus many a sad to morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 

I learned at last submission to my lot; 

But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 
more— 

Children not thine have trod my nursery j 
floor; 

And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way— 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped ' 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped— ; 
’Tis now become a history little known, 

That once we called the pastoral house our own; 
Short-lived possession! but tbe record fair, 

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced ; 


Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly 
laid; 

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit or confectionery plum : 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and 
glowed. 

All this, and more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall— 
Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor, interposed, too often makes; 

All this, still legible in memory’s page, 

And still to be so to my latest age, 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may— 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere— 

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed 
here. 

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the 
hours, 

When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued 
flowers — 

The violet, the pink, the jessamine, — 

I pricked them into paper with a pin, 

(And thou wast happier than myself the 
while— 

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and 
smile,)— 

Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish 
them here ? 

I would not trust my heart, — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 

But no,—what here we call our life is such, 

So little to be loved, and thou so much, 

That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Tbou — as a gallant bark, from Albion’s 
coast, 

(The storms all weathered and the ocean 
crossed,) 

Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons 
smile ; 

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,— 





WILLIAM COWPER. 


595 


So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached I 
the shore 

“ Where tempests never beat nor billows 
roar: ” 

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 

Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 

Always from port withheld, always distressed,— 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest- 
tossed, 

Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and com¬ 
pass lost; 

And day by day some current’s thwarting force 

Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 

Yet O, the thought that thou art safe, and 
he!— 

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 


My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From lions enthroned, and rulers of the 
earth; 

But higher far my proud pretensions rise. — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 

And now, farewell! — Time, unrevoked, has 
run 

His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. 
By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain, 
I seem tohave lived my childhood o’er again,— 
To have renewed the joys that once were 
mine, 

Without the sin of violating thine ; 

And, while the wings of fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 


THE CRICKET. 


L ITTLE inmate, full of mirth, 

Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
Wheresoe’er be thine abode 
Always harbinger of good, 

Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With song more soft and sweet; 

In return thou shalt receive 
Such a strain as I can give. 

Thus thy praise shall be expressed, 
Inoffensive, welcome guest! 

While the rat is on the scout, 

And the mouse with curious snout, 


With what vermin else infest 
Every dish and spoil the best; 
Frisking thus before the fire, 
Thou hast all thy heart’s desire. 

Though in voice and shape they be 
Formed as if a kin to thee, 

Thou surpassest, happier far, 
Happiest grasshoppers that are ; 
Theirs is but a summer’s song,— 
Thine endures the winter long, 
Unimpaired and shrill and clear, 
Melody throughout the year. 


THE HAPPY MAN. 

FROM “THE WINTER WALK AT NOON.” 


H E is the happy mau whose life even now 
Shows somewhat of that happier life to 
come; 

Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, 
Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, 
Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, 
the fruit 

Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, 
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one 
Content indeed to sojourn while he must 
Below the skies, but having there his home. 

38 


The world o’erlooks him in her busy search 
Of objects, more illustrious in her view ; 
j And, occupied as earnestly as she, 
j Though more sublimely, he o’er looks the world. 

; She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them 
not; 

He seeks not hers, for he has proved them 
vain. 

He cannot skim the ground like summer birds 
Pursuing gilded flies ; and such he deems 








594 


WILLIAM COWPEP 


Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. 
Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, 

Whose power is such that whom she lifts from 
earth 

She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, 


And shows him glories yet to be revealed. 

; Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, 
And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams 
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird 
! That flutters least is longest on the wing. 


HUMANITY. 

FROM “THE WINTER WALK AT NOON.” 


I WOULD not enter on my list of friends 
(Though graced with polished manners 
and fine sense, 

Yet wanting sensibility) the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 

An inadvertent step may crush the snail 
That crawls at evening in the public path; 
But he that has humanity, forewarned, 

Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 

The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, 
And charged perhaps with venom, that in¬ 
trudes, 

A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 
Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, 

The chamber, or refectory, may die: 

A necessary act incurs no blame. 

Not so when, held within their proper bounds, 


And guiltless of offence, they range the air, 
Or take their pastime in the spacious field : 
There they are privileged : and he that hunts 
Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, 
Disturbs the economy of Nature’s realm, 

Who, when she formed, designed them an 
abode. 

The sum is this: If man’s convenience, health, 
Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. 
Else they are all—the meanest things that 
are— 

As free to live, and to enjoy that life, 

As God was free to form them from the first, 
Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. 
Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
To love it too. 


CONTRADICTION. 

FROM “CONVERSATION.” 


Y E powers who rule the tongue, if such 
there are, 

And make colloquial happiness your 
care, 

Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, 
A duel in the form of a debate. 

The clash of arguments and jar of words, 
Worse than the mortal blunt of rival swords, 
Decide no question with their tedious length, 
For opposition gives opinion strength. 

Divert the the champions prodigal of breath ; 
And put the peaceably disposed to death. 

O, thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn, 
Nor carp at every flaw you may discern! 
Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 

I am not surely always in the wrong; 

’Tis hard if all is false that I advance, 

A fool must now and then be right by chance. 
Not that all freedom of dissent I blame ; 

No—there I grant the privilege I claim. 


A disputable point is no man’s ground; 

Rove where you please, ’tis common all around. 
Discourse may want an animated No 
To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 
But still remember, if you mean to please, 

To press your point with modesty and ease. 
The mark at which my juster aim I take, 

Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 

Set your opinion at whatever pitch, 

Knots and impediments make something hitch; 
Adopt his own, ’tis equally in vain, 

Your thread pf argument is snapped again. 
The wrangler, rather than accord with you, 
Will judge himself deceived*and prove it too. 
Vociferated logic kills me quite, 

A noisy man is always in the right. 

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, 

And, when I hope his blunders are all out, 
Reply discreetly, To be sure—no doubt. 







William Wordsworth. 

“The Poet of Nature.” 


NOTKD Knglish poet who was born at Cockermouth, Cumber¬ 
land, England, April 7, 1770, and died at Rydal Mount, April 
23, 1850. Wordsworth is known as one of the “ lake poets.” 
After receiving a thorough education at Hawkshead and St 
John’s College, Cambridge, he traveled on the continent and 
lived for a year in France. In 1795 he was put in easy cir¬ 
cumstances by receiving a legacy. Wordsworth made his home with his 
sister at Grassmere and traveled a great deal on the continent and in 
Scotland. He was visited by Coleridge, and the two were strong admirers 
and close friends. He rece 1 " rc ’’he honor of appointment as poet laureate 
in 1843. 

Wordsworth’s fkst works—* An Evening Walk ’’ and “ Descriptive 
Sketches ”—appeared in 1793, sud attracted much attention by their quiet 
beauty and ge’tie spirit Five years later he published “Lyrical Bal¬ 
lads,” containing Coler'dge’s “ Ancient Mariner.” Other volumes of 
verse followed almo.A .0 the time of his death. Wordsworth became the 
exponent of a school, whose characteristic was sympathy with and inter¬ 
pretation of nature. “ The Excursion ” and “ The Prelude ” are two of 
his best offorts, but his “ Ode on Immortality ” is his most celebrated 
production. 



THE TRAVELLER’S DOG. 


A BARKING sound the shepherd hears 
A cry as of a dog or fox ; 

He halts, and searches with his eyes 
Among the scattered rocks; 

And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern; 

And instantly a dog is seen, 

Glancing through that covert green. 

The dog is not of mountain breed ; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy,— 


With something, as the shepherd thinks, 
Unusual in its cry ; 

Nor is there any one in sight 
All round, in hollow or on height; 

Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. 
What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December’s snow ; 
A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below! 


595 





596 


WILUAM WORDSWORTH. 


Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 

Remote from public road or dwelling, 
Pathway, or cultivated land,— 

From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 
The crags repeat the raven’s croak 
In symphony austere; 

Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud, 
And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past, 

But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile 
The shepherd stood ; then makes his way 
O’er rocks and stones, following the dog 
As quickly as he may ; 

Nor far had gone before he found 
A human skeleton on the ground. 

The appalled discoverer with a sigh 
Looks round to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
The man had fallen, that place of fear ! 


At length upon the shepherd’s mind 
It breaks, and all is clear. 

He instantly recalled the name, 

And who he was, and w r hence he came ; 
Remembered, too, the very day 
On which the traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 
This lamentable tale I tell! 

A lasting monument of words 
This wonder merits well. 

The dog, which still was hovering nigh, 
Repeating the same timid cry, 

This dog had been through three months’ 
space 

A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain, that, since the day 
When this ill-fated traveller died, 

The dog had watched about the spot, 

Or by his master’s side. 

How nourished here through such long time 
He knows who gave that love sublime. 

And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate ! 


ODE ON IMMORTALITY. 


O UR birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The soul that rises with us our life’s 
star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And cometh from afar ; 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 

But, trailing clouds of glory, do we come 
From God, who is our home: 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 

Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
Upon the growing boy, 

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows. 
He sees it in his joy; 

The youth, who daily farther from the East 
Must travel, still is nature’s priest, 

And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 

At length the man perceives it die away, 

And fade into the light of common day. 


Earth Jills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her natural kind; 

And, even with something of a mother’s mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 

The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man. 
Forget the glories he hath known 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
breast— 

Not for these I raise 
The songs of thanks and praise ; 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 





WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 


597 


Fallings from us, vanishings; 

Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 

High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised! 

But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may, 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 

Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
Uphold us—cherish—and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake 
To perish never; 

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 
Nor man, nor boy, 

Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 

Can utterly abolish or destroy: 

Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither; 

Can in a moment travel thither— 

And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song, 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor’s sound! 

We, in thought, will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 


Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May! [bright 
What though the radiance which was once so 
Be now for ever taken from thy sight— 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind, 

In the primal sympathy, 

Which, having been, must ever be, 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering, 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And oh, ye fountains, meadows,hills, and groves, 
Think not of any severing of your loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
I only have relinquished one delight, 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks,which down their channels fret, 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
Is lovely yet; 

The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; 
Another race hath been,and other palms are won 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live; 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears; 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 


SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 


S HE was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment’s ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 

Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too! 

Her household motions light and free, 
And steps of virgin-liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 


Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature’s daily food, 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveller between life and death: 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel-light. 




Alfred Austin. 

Poet Laureate of England. 


HE present poet laureate of England was born near Leeds, May 
30, 1835. At the age of eighteen he graduated from the Uni¬ 
versity of London, and in 1857 was called to the bar. From 
1870 to 1883 he was prominently identified with journalism, 
representing the London “ Standard ” at Rome during the 
session of the Ecumenical Council in 1870, and at the head¬ 
quarters of William I., during the Franco-Prussian War. On the estab¬ 
lishment of the “ National Review ” in 1883, he was placed in editorial 
control. His claim to fame, however, rests chiefly upon his work as a 
poet. 

After the death of Lord Tennyson, the Marquis of Salisbury, then 
Premier, offered him the post of poet laureate, which he accepted. The 
appointment caused not a little surprise, and provoked more or less 
hostile comment. Austin is a brilliant conversationalist and a highly 
prized guest at social gatherings, although at times is inclined to be 
brusque. His verse is uniformly good or bad, and it contains enough of 
both merit and demerit to account for the contrary opinions held of his 
poetic talent. 



TOGETHER. 

DEDICATED WITH WARMEST SYMPATHY TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE. 


W HO say we cherish far-off feud. 

Still nurse the ancient grudges ? 
Show me the title of this brood 
Of self-appointed judges; 

Their name, their race, their nation, clan, 
And we will teach them whether 
We do not, as none others can, 

Feel, think, and work together! 

Both speak the tongue that Milton spoke, 
Shakespeare and Chatham wielded, 
And Washington and all his folk 
When their just claim was yielded. 

598 


In it both lisp, both learn, both pray, 
Dirge death, and thus the tether, 
Grows tighter, tenderer, every day. 

That binds the two together. 

Our ways are one, and one our aim, 

And one will be our story, 

Who fight for Freedom, not for fame, 
From Duty, not for glory; 

Both stock of the old Home, where blow 
Shamrock, and rose, and heather, 

And every year link arms and go 
Through its loved haunts together. 





ALFRED AUSTIN. 


599 


Should envious aliens plan and plot 
’Gainst one, and now the other, 

They swift would learn how strong the knot 
Binds brother unto brother. 

How quickly they would change their tack 
And show the recreant feather, 

Should Star and Stripe and Union Jack, 
But float mast-high together. 


Now let us give one hearty grip, 

As by true men is given, 

And vow fraternal fellowship 
That never shall be riven; 

And with our peaceful flags unfurled, 
Be fair or foul the weather, 

Should need arise, face all the world, 
And stand or fall together. 


THE LAST REDOUBT. 


K ACELYVO’S slope still felt 

The cannons’ bolts and the rifles’ pelt; 
For the last redoubt up the hill remained, 
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained. 
Mehemet Ali stroked his beard ; 

His lips were clinched and his look was weird ; 
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk, 
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke. 

“ Clear me the Muscovite out! ” he cried, 
Then the name of if Allah! ” echoed wide, 
And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets 
lowered, 

And on to the last redoubt they poured. 

One fell, and a second quickly stopped 
The gap that he left when he reeled and 
dropped; 

The second—a third straight filled his place; 
The third—and a fourth kept up the race. 

Many a fez in the mud was crushed, 

Many a throat that cheered was hushed, 
Many a heart that sought the crest 
Found Allah’s arms and an houri’s breast. 
Over their corpses the living sprang. 

And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang, 
Till the faces that lined the last redoubt 
Could see their faces and hear their shout. 

In the redoubt a fair form towered, 

That cheered up the brave and chid the 
coward; 


Brandishing blade with a gallant air, 

His head erect and his bosom bare. 

“ Fly! they are on us! ” his men implored, 
But he waved them on with his waving sword. 
“ It cannot be held; ’tis no shame to go ! ” 
But he stood with his face set hard to the foe. 

“ Yield! ” but aloft his steel he flashed, 

And down on their steel it ringing clashed, 
Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt, 

His honor full, but his life blood spilt. 

| They lifted him up from the dabbled ground; 
His limbs were shapely and soft and round. 
No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade— 
“ Bismillah ! ” they cried; “ ’tis an infidel 
maid! ” 

Mehemet Ali came and saw 

The riddled breast and the tender jaw. 

“ Make her a bier of your arms,” he said, 

“ And daintily bury this dainty dead ! 

Make her a grave where she stood and fell, 
’Gainst the jackal’s scratch and the vulture’s 
smell, 

I Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight, 
In their lines we had scarcely supped to-night.” 

So a deeper trench ’mong the trenches there 
Was dug for the form as brave as fair ; 

And none, till the judgment trump and shout, 
Shall drive her out of the Last Redoubt. 


IS LIFE WORTH LIVING. 


S life worth living ? Yes, so long 
As spring revives the year, 

And hails us with the cuckoo’s song, 
To show that she is here ; 

So long as May of April takes 
In smiles and tears farewell. 


And windflowers dapple all the brakes, 
And primroses the dell; 

And children in the woodlands yet 
Adorn their little laps 
With ladysmock and violet, 

And daisy-chain their caps; 









600 


ALFRED AUSTIN. 


While over orchard daffodils 
Cloud-shadows float and fleet, 

And ouzel pipes and laverock trills, 

And young lambs buck and bleat; 

So long as that which bursts the bud, 

And swells and tunes the rill, 

Makes springtime in the maiden’s blood, 
Life is worth living still. 

Life not worth living! Come with me, 
Now that, through vanishing veil, 
Shimmers the dew on lawn and lea, 

And milk foams in the pail; 

Now that June’s sweltering sunlight bathes 
With sweat the triplings lithe, 

As fall the long, straight, scented swathes 
Over the rhythmic scythe ; 

Now that the throstle never stops 
His self-sufficing strain, 

And woodbine-trails festoon the copse, 

And eglantine the lane; 

Now rustic labor seems as sweet 
As leisure, and blithe herds 
Went homeward with unweary feet, 
Carolling like the birds ; 

Now all, except the lover’s vow, 

And nightingale, is still; 

Here, in the starlit hour, allow, 

Life is worth living still. 

When summer, lingering half-forlorn, 

On autumn loves to lean, 

And fields of slowly yellowing corn 
Are girt by woods still green; 

When hazelnuts wax brown and plump, 
And apples rosy-red, 


And the owlet hoots from hollow stump, 
And the dormouse makes its bed ; 

When crammed are all the granary floors, 
And the hunter’s moon is bright, 

And life again is sweet indoors, 

And logs again alight; 

Aye, even when the houseless wind 
Waileth through cleft and chink, 

And in the twilight maids grow kind, 

And jugs are filled and clink ; 

When children clasp their hands and pray, 
“ Be done Thy heavenly will! ” 

Who doth not lift his voice and say, 

“ Life is worth living still ? ’ ’ 

Is life worth living? Yes, so long 
As there is wrong to right, 

Wail of the weak against the strong. 

Or tyranny to fight ; 

Long as there lingers gloom to chase, 

Or streaming tear to dry, 

One kindred woe, one sorrowing face 
That smiles as we draw nigh ; 

Long as a tale of anguish swells 
The heart and lids grow wet. 

And at the sound of Christmas bells 
We pardon and forget; 

So long as faith with freedom reigns, 

And loyal hope survives, 

And gracious charity remains 
To leaven lowly lives; 

While there is one untrodden tract 
For intellect or will, 

And men are free to think and act, 

Life is worth living still. 


A ROYAL HOMECOMING. 


On the occasion of the return of the Duke 
ful tour through the British Colonies. 

W ELCOME, right welcome home to 
these blest isles, 

Where, unforgotten, loved Victoria 
sleeps; 

But now with happy pride your father smiles, 
Your mother weeps! 


and Duchess of York from a long and event- 

You went and came as swallows homeward 
draw, 

Now it hath winged its way to winter’s 
green, 

But never swallow or wandering sea bird saw 
What you have seen. 








ALFRED AUSTIN. 


601 


For you have circled earth with pinions fleet, 
The seasons through; and everywhere a 
throng 

Of glowing hearts your coming trooped to 
greet 

With flowers and song. 

Over the unchanging sea eight changeful 
moons 

Have moved from shield to sickle, seed to 
sheaves; 

And twice a hundred dawns, a hundred noons, 
A hundred eves 

Waned to their slumber in the starlit night. 
And ever from land or lake, from wave or 
crag, 

From fixed or floating fort you had in sight 
The British flag. 

And wider, further onward round the world, 
Scouring the field or furrowing the sea, 

You found that emblem, which, where’er 
unfurled, 

Floats o’er the free. 

So that on man and man’s laborious hand 
Nor manacle nor hindrance shall be laid, 

But mind with mind and strand with gener¬ 
ous strand 
Contend and trade. 


And though the shade of treasonable strife 
Falls on our homes and theirs you, wander¬ 
ing saw, 

Young commonwealths you found, surging 
with life, 

Yet ruled by law, 

Whose blood infused in ours in war’s emprise 
To vindicate one sceptre, sword and tongue, 

As ours perchance may help to keep them 
wise, 

Hath made us young. 

Fountain of youth England in mellower years 
Hath found and drained, so that she ne’er 
need know 

What nature feels when Autumn stacks and 

seres 

Or Yule gusts blow. 

You sailed from us to them, from them to 
us, 

Love at the prow and Wisdom at the helm, 

August ambassadors, who strengthen thus 
Her rule and realm ! 

Round you to-day a people stand arrayed 
That fain with peace two wedded worlds 
would dower; 

Therefore rejoicing mightier hath been made 
Imperial power! 




Charles Kingsley. 

Miscellaneous Writer. 


ISTINGUISHED as the author of “ Westward, Ho ! ” one of the 
world’s most stirring tales of adventure by land and sea, was 
born in Dartmoor, June 12, 1819. Mr. Kingsley was educated 
at Cambridge, and took orders in the cburcb. He passed bis 
life as curate and rector, and at the same time made some 
valuable contributions to literature. His first effort was “ The 
Saint’s Tragedy; or the True Story of Elizabeth of Hungary,” which 
was published in 1848. “ Alton Locke ” and “ Yeast,” two brilliant novels 
which dealt entertainingly with social problems, were published in 1850 
and 1851, and were immediate successes. 

Mr. Kingsley was a “ Christian Socialist.” He was deeply inter¬ 
ested in the betterment of the condition of the poor, and contributed lib¬ 
erally on this subject to the magazines. His greatest novels, “Hypatia ” 
and “ Westward, Ho! ” were published in 1853 and 1855, respectively. 
Both were received with enthusiasm, and “Westward, Ho!” has ever 
remained a standard novel of adventure, which has a place in every 
library. Mr. Kingsley died January 23, 1875. 

As a poet his productions are meritorious and popular. 



A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER. 

THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS. 


T HE merry brown hares came leaping 
Over the crest of the hill, 

Where the clover and corn lay sleeping, 
Under the moonlight still. 

Leaping late and early, 

Till under their bite and their tread, 

The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley 
Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead. 

A poacher’s widow sat sighing 

On the side of the white chalk bank, 
Where, under the gloomy fir-woods, 

One spot in the lea throve rank. 

602 


She watched a long tuft of clover, 

Where rabbit or hare never ran, 

For its black sour haulm covered over 
The blood of a murdered man. 

She thought of the dark plantation, 

And the hares, and her husband’s blood, 

And the voice of her indignation 
Rose up to the throne of God. 

“ I am long past wailing and whining,— 

I have wept too much in my life: 

I’ve had twenty years of pining 
As an English laborer’s wife. 






CHARLES KINGSLEY. 


603 


** A laborer in Christian England, 

Where they cant of a Saviour’s name, 

And yet waste men’s lives, like the vermin’s, 
For a few more brace of game. 

“ There’s blood on your new foreign shrubs, 
squire ; 

There’s blood on your pointer’s feet; 
There’s blood on the game you sell, squire, 
And there’s blood on the game you eat. 

“You have sold the laboring man, squire, 
Both body and soul to shame. 

To pay for your seat in the House, squire, 
And to pay for the feed of your game. 

“ You made him a poacher yourself, squire, 
When you’d give neither work nor meat, 
And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden 
At our starving children’s feet. 

“ When, packed in one reeking chamber, 
Man, maid, mother and little ones lay; 
While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride- 
And the walls let in the day. [bed, 

“ When we lay in the burning fever, 

On the mud of the cold clay floor. 

Till you parted us all for three months, squire, 
At the cursed workhouse door. 

“ We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders ? 

What self-respect could we keep, 

Worse housed than your hacks and your 
pointers, 

Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep ? 

“ Our daughters, with base-born babies, 

Have wandered away in their shame; 


If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, 
Your misses might do the same. 

“ Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking, 
With handfuls of coals and rice, 

Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting 
A little below cost prioe ? 

“ You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, 
And take to allotments and schools, 

But you’ve run up a debt that will never 
Be repaid us by penny-club rules. 

“ In the season of shame and sadness, 

In the dark and dreary day, 

When scrofula, gout, and madness 
Are eating your race away; 

“ When to kennels and liveried varlets 
You have cast your daughters’ bread, 

And, worn out with liquor and harlots, 

Your heir at your feet lies dead ; 

*’ When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed 
rector, 

Lets your soul rot asleep to th^grave, 

You will find in your God the protector 
Of the freeman you fancied your slave.” 

She looked at the tuft of clover, 

And wept till her heart grew light; 

And at last, when her passion was over, 

Went wandering into the night. 

But the merry brown hares came leaping 
Over the upland still, 

Where the clover and corn lay sleeping 
On the side of the white chalk hill. 


THE FISHERMEN. 


T HREE fishers went sailing out into the 
west— 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Each thought of the woman who loved him 
the best, 

And the children stood watching them out 
of the town; 

For men must work, and women must weep ; 
And there’s little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 


Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went 
down; 

And the} r looked at the squall, and they looked 
at the shower, 

And the rack it came rolling up, ragged 
and brown; 

But men must work, and women must weep, 

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 





604 


CHARLES KINGSLEY. 


Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went 
down, 

And the women are watching and wringing 
their hands, 


For those who will never come back to the 
town; 

For men must work, and women must weep— 
And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep— 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 


O MARY, GO AND CALL THE CATTLE HOME! 


( ( /""A MARY, go and call the cattle home 
And call the cattle home, 

And call the cattle home, 

Across the sands o’ Dee! ” 

The western wind was wild and dank wi’ foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
And o’er and o’er the sand, 

And round and round the sand, 

As far as eye could see; 

The blinding mist came down and hid the land: 
And never home came she. 


“ O, it is weed, or fish, or floating hair,— 

A tress o’ golden hair, 

O’ drowned maiden’s hair,— 

Above the nets at sea ? 

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
Among the stakes on Dee.” 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,— 
The cruel, crawling foam, 

The cruel, hungry foam,— 

To her grave beside the sea ; 

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle 
Across the sands o’ Dee. [home 


THE MERRY LARK. 


T HE merry, merry lark was up and singing, 
And the hare was out and feeding on 
the lea, 

And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, 
When my child’s laugh rang through me. 


Now the hare is snared and dead beside the 
snowyard, 

And the lark beside the dreary winter sea, 
And my baby in his cradle in the churchyard 
Waiteth there until the bells bring me. 


THE DAY OF THE LORD. 


T HE Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand ; 
Its storms roll up the sky : 

The nations sleep starving on heaps of 
gold; 

All dreamers toss and sigh ; 

The night is darkest before the morn ; 

When the pain is sorest the child is born, 

And the Day of the Lord is at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, angels of God— 
Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth; 

Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old; 

Come down, and renew us her youth. 
Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, 
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above— 
To the Day of the Lord at hand. 


Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell— 
Famine, and Plague, and War: 

Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, 

Gather, and fall in the snare ! 

Hireling and Mammouite, Bigot aud Knave, 
Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave, 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age 
of gold. 

While the Lord of all ages is here ? 

True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 
And those who can suffer can dare. 

Each old age of gold was an iron age too, 

And the meekest of saints may find stern work 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. [to do, 











Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

Poet and Philosopher. 


AMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, was born in Devonshire, Eng¬ 
land, October 21, 1772. He was left an orphan at the age of nine, 
and was presented to Christ’s Hospital, where he began his 
education and formed an intimacy with Charles Lamb, one of 
his school-fellows. In 1791 he entered Cambridge University, 
but remained there scarcely two years, quitting college to enlist 
in the dragoons, under an assumed name. His relatives soon secured 
his discharge. In 1794 he formed the friendship of Southey, who, like 
himself, was a liberal in both politics and religion. He and Southey 
married sisters. 

Taking up his residence at Nether Stowey, Somersetshire, he was 
thrown much into the company of Wordsworth, the two poets finding 
each other exceedingly congenial. He and Wordsworth traveled through 
Germany together, and in 1801, together with Wordsworth and Southey 
he settled at Keswick. Coleridge became interested in the study of 
metaphysics and theology, and was probably the first to clearly unfold 
German philosophy to English thought. While a great genius, his 
character was not without its infirmities, which were aggravated by the 
use of opium. He died July 25, 1834. 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE AT 

A WAKE, my soul ! not only passive praise, 
Tliou owest? not alone these swelling 
tears, 

Mute thanks, and secret ecstacy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song! Awake my heart, awake! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the 
vale ! 

O, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 

Or when they climb the sky or when they sink,— 


THE FOOT OF MONT BLANC. 

Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth’s rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald,—wake, O, wake, and utter praise! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! 
Who called you forth from night and utter 
death, 

From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 

605 





606 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE- 


Forever shattered and the same forever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 
your joy, 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s 
brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain,— 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! 
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living 
flowers 

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
Cod!—let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! 
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome 
voice! 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 
sounds! 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 


And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements! 

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! 

Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-point¬ 
ing peaks, 

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 
serene, 

Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast,— 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow ti-avelling with dim eyes suffused with 
tears, 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 

To rise before me,—Rise, O, ever rise! 

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, 

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 


THE QUARREL OF FRIENDS. 

FROM “ CHRIST ABEL.” 


A LAS! they had been friends in youth : 
But whispering tongues can poison 
truth; 

And constancy lives in realms above; 

And life is thorny; and youth is vain ; 

And to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 

And thus it chanced, as I divine, 

With Roland and Sir Leoline ! 

Each spoke words of high disdain 


And insult to his heart’s best brother; 
They parted,—ne’er to meet again! 

But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining. 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 

Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 

A dreary sea now floats between, 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been. 






John Ruskin. 

Highest Authority on Art. 


HE distinguished prose author and critic whose masterly works 
have made a place for themselves in the literature of our day, 
was born in London, England, in 1819. His writings on art, 
including “ Modern Painters,’’ “ The Seven Lamps of Archi¬ 
tecture,” and “ Stones of Venice,” are brilliant in thought and 
exceedingly forcible in style. Ruskin in his writings compels 
attention. There is something striking in every paragraph. His 
thought is of the highest order, his words ring like blows on an anvil, 
and his marshalled sentences are like battalions charging in battle. 

He published nearly thirty works, mainly on art and architecture, 
and maintained his supremacy in this field of literature to the last. He 
also contributed largely to contemporaneous literature. He was elected 
Professor of Fine Arts at Oxford, 1869, an ^ received the degree of LL.D. 
from the University of Cambridge in 1871. 

Ruskin was an indefatigable worker. He always rose with the sun, 
and much of his literay work was done before his friends or the rest of 
his household were awake. He had the genius for friendship, and his 
private correspondence, no less than his public, was large. He was 
sometimes momentarily hot-tempered, and was not averse to the use of 
strong language. But of the arrogance and intolerance often displayed 
in his writings when he assumed the prophet’s mantle, there was in 
his private intercourse no trace. Died in 1899. 



BOOK BUYERS. 


I SAY we have despised literature; what do 
we as a nation, care about books ? How 
much do you think we spend altogether 
on our libraries, public or private, as com¬ 
pared with what we spend on our horses ? If 
a man spends lavishly on his library, you cal l 
him mad—a biliomaniac. But you never call 


one a horse maniac though men ruin them¬ 
selves every day by their horses, and you do 
not hear of people ruining themselves by 
their books. Or, to go lower still, how much 
do you think the contents of the book shelves 
of the United Kingdom, public and private, 
would fetch, as compared with the contents of 

607 





008 


JOHN RUSKIN. 


its wine cellars? What position would its ex¬ 
penditure on literature take as compared with 
its expenditure on luxurious eating ? 

We talk of food for the mind, as of food 
for the body; now, a good book contains such 
food inexhaustibly: it is provision for life, and 
for the best part of us; yet, how long most 
people would look at the best book before 
they would give the price of a large turbot 


' for it. Though there have been men who 
have pinched their stomachs and bared their 
backs to buy a book, whose libraries were 
cheaper to them, I think, in the end, than 
most men’s dinners are. We are few of us 
put to such a trial, and more the pity; for, 
indeed, a precious thing is all the more pre- 
, cious to us if it has been won by work or 
I economy. 


THE DAWN OF PEACE. 


P UT off, put off your mail, O kings, 

And beat your brands to dust! 

Your hands must learn a surer grasp. 
Your hearts a better trust. 

O, bend aback the lance’s point, 

And break the helmet bar ; 

A noise is in the morning wind, 

But not the note of war. 

Upon tho grassy mountain paths 
The glittering hosts increase— 

They come! They come! How fair their feet! 
They come who publish peace. 


And victory, fair victory, 

Our enemies are ours! 

For all the clouds are clasped in light 
And all the earth with flowers. 

Aye, still depressed and dim with dew, 
But wait a little while, 

And with the radiant deathless rose 
The wilderness shall smile, 

And every tender, living thing 
Shall feed by streams of rest; 

Nor lamb shall from the flock be lost. 
Nor nursling from the nest. 


COLORS IN NATURE. 


N ATURE has a thousand ways and means 
of rising above herself, but incompar¬ 
ably the noblest manifestations of her 
capability of color are in the sunsets among 
the high clouds. I speak especially of the 
moment before the sun sinks, when his light 
turns pure rose-color, and when this light falls 
upon a zenith covered with countless cloud- 
forms of inconceivable delicacy, threads and 
flakes of vapor, which would in common day¬ 
light be pure snow-white, and which give 
therefore fair field to the tone of light. There 
is then no limit to the multitude, and no 
check to the intensity, of the hues assumed. 


The whole sky from the zenith to the hori¬ 
zon becomes one molten, mantling sea of color 
and fire; every black bar turns into massy 
gold, every ripple and wave into unsullied, 
shadowless crimson, and purple, aud scarlet, 
and colors for which there are no words in 
language and no ideas in the mind—things 
which can only be conceived while they are 
visible—the intense hollow blue of the upper 
sky melting through it all—showing here deep 
aud pure and lightless, there modulated by 
the filmy, formless body of the transparent 
vapor, till it is lost imperceptibly in its crim¬ 
son and gold. 






QUESTIONS 

ON THE 

Subjects Treated in this Volume 

DESIGNED TO 

Educate the Reader in the Great Masterpieces of American and 
English Literature and in the History of their Authors. 


HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

Where and when was Longfellow born ? 
At what college did he graduate ? What was 
his professorship at Harvard? What were 
the leading incidents of his life ? What are j 
the characteristics of his writings? Name i 
some of his well-known works. What are 
the titles of his most famous poems ? In what 
year did he die?.17 j 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Where was Bryant born and in what year ? 
How old was he when he began to write 
verses? Where did he pursue his studies? 
At what age did he write “ Thanatopsis ? ” 
What was his occupation ? What does Gris¬ 
wold say of his writings? What poems in 
this volume do you prefer ? What was Bryant’s 
personal appearance?.31 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

What was Emerson’s style of thought? 
Where was he born and educated? What 
profession did he adopt? What can you say 
of his essays? How does he rank as a 
thinker? Did he have any hobbies? For 
what are his writings distinguished? Name 
the titles of some of his works. Can you 
repeat his “ Concord Hymn ? ” . . . .45 

EDGAR ALLEN POE. 

Repeat the substance of Paul Hamilton 
Havne’s tribute to Poe. What is said con¬ 
cerning his genius? Narrate Poe’s history? 
What were his personal traits and vices ? • 
39 


j What does Willis say of “The Raven?” 
What are the prominent characteristics of 
Poe’s writings? What are his published 
works ? Where and when did Poe die? . 58 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 

Of what State is he a native? To what 
periodicals did he contribute? When was 
his first volume of poems published ? What 
can you say of his descriptive powers? To 
whom was he married ? Name his well-known 
works. Give an account of the dinner ten¬ 
dered to him by the Authors’ Club. ... 67 

FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 

What hardships did he undergo in early 
life ? Where was he born ? Where were his 
first productions published ? What characters 
doe3 he especially portray? Name some of 
his works. What dialect poem first brought 
him into notice ?.71 

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. 

Name the three departments of literature 
in which he was prominent. Where was he 
bom and what proftssion did he choose? 
What position did he hold at Vicksburg? 
What was his pen-name? What is the char¬ 
acter of his writings? Name titles of his 
prose works and poems.75 

EDWARD EVERETT. 

What can you say of his early precocity? 
How old was he when called to the most prom¬ 
inent pulpit in Boston? What are the titles 

609 









610 


QUESTIONS ON THE SUBJECTS TREATED. 


of some of his controversial works? What What was his career during the Civil War? 
professorship did he hold at Harvard ? De What provision was made for him in his old 
scribe his fame as an orator. Name the titles age? Repeat, if you can, his touching tri- 
of some of his celebrated orations. ... 79 bute to President Lincoln .107 


BAYARD TAYLOR. 

What Latin saying can be applied to him ? 
Where was his birthplace? Relate the prom¬ 
inent events in his career. What are his 
well-known books of travels? Name his vol¬ 
umes of poems. Describe his style and its 
characteristics. What official positions did 
he hold under our Government ? .... 83 

WASHINGTON IRVING. 

What name has been given him? De¬ 
scribe his parentage and early life? How did 
he come to be a writer? How was he received 
in England ? Where was his American resi¬ 
dence ? What was his first work that attracted 
attention ? What periodicals was he identified 
with? Name his celebrated works. . . . 88 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Why is Whittier styled the “ Bard of Free¬ 
dom ? ” What other name is sometimes given 
to him? Where did his ancestors reside and 
where was he born? Name the prominent 
events in his career. What journals was he 
connected with? What characteristics are 
evident in his writings? Why can he be 
styled a National poet? Mention some of 
the poems included in this volume. ... 93 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 

Where and when was Cooper born ? To ] 
what locality did the family migrate? When 
did Cooper retire from the Navy? Whom 
did he marry? What was his first literary 
production? What are the elements that 
gave his stories their great popularity ? What 
resemblances are there between Cooper and 
Sir Walter Scott?.102 

WALT WHITMAN. 

Why is he called the “ good gray poet? ” 
What were his personal traits? Of what 
stock, where and when was he born ? What 
was his trade in early life? What is the 
style of his versification ? What can you say 
of the sentiments expressed in his writings? 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

What is Hawthorne’s rank among modern 
authors? What names are usually mentioned 
in the same category ? Can you repeat Long¬ 
fellow’s tribute to him? Where was Haw¬ 
thorne born and educated? What distin¬ 
guished classmate did he have? Name some 
of the titles of his romances? Describe his 
style. For what is his style especially dis¬ 
tinguished? .110 

MARK TWAIN. 

To what class of writers does Mark Twain 
belong ? What was one of the great charac¬ 
teristics of Washington Irving’s works? Men¬ 
tion the incidents in Mark Twain’s early life 
in the West? What is his rank among the 
humorists of the day? What was his most 
successful work ? What happened after he 
had published the “Memoirs of General 
Grant?” Name the titles of his best known 
works?.115 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Name the incidents in his early life? 
What profession did he at first choose and 
why did he abandon it? What are the titles 
of his earliest poems? What was the subject 
of his popular course of lectures in Boston ? 
What professorship was bestowed upon him 
by Harvard? What can you say of the ver¬ 
satility of his powers? What positions did he 
hold under our Government? Who was his 
wife and what were her traits? What inci¬ 
dent is commemorated by Longfellow? . 120 

HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 

In what department does this lady exhibit 
her genius? Where was she born and who 
was her father? When and whom did she 
marry? What compelled her to devote her¬ 
self to literature? How were her writings 
received by the public? Describe her various 
productions. Give some account of her life in 
the West and her death. What are the titles 
of some of her well known works? . . . 125 










611 


QUESTIONS ON THE 

GEORGE BANCROFT. 

What is Bancroft’s rank as a historian? 
What requisites are essential to the best his¬ 
tory? What of Bancroft’s birth and ances¬ 
try? When did he graduate from Harvard 
College ? Under whom did he study in Ger¬ 
many? Where was he engaged as a teacher? 
What position did he hold at Washington 
under President Polk? To what court was 
he our minister during the Civil War? When 
did Bancroft die?.129 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 

To what subjects do his poems mostly re¬ 
late? Where was he born and educated? 
What periodicals did he edit? Name the 
titles of his works of travel. What are the 
titles of his other prose works? How does he 
rank as a word painter? How are his 
“Sacred Poems” regarded?.134 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

What event in the Civil War did he com¬ 
memorate? Where was he born and in what 
year? Where did he reside when he was 
abroad ? What are the titles of his most pop¬ 
ular works? What does the “Westminster 
Review ” say concerning his poem entitled 
“ The Closing Scene ? ”..' . 138 

HORACE GREELEY. 

What was Mr. Greeley’s rank as a journal¬ 
ist? Where was he born and brought up? 
What were the circumstances of his early life ? 
What trade did he learn? How much money 
had he when he first arrived in New York ? 
What periodicals was he connected with, and 
when did he found the “ New York Tribune ? ” 
What were his personal traits? By what 
party was he nominated for the Presidency? 
What can you say of his “History of the 
American Conflict ? ’’ What was the date of 
Mr. Greeley's death ? . -.141 

JAMES PARTON. 

In what fields of literature is Mr. Parton 
known? Mention some of his biographies. 
Describe his career during the Civil War. 
Where was he born ? With what American 
periodicals was he connected ? Whom did he 
marry ? What is the style of his writings ? 145 


SUBJECTS TREATED. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

In what departments of literature is he con¬ 
spicuous? What are the works by which he 
is best known? Give his history, including 
birth, education, professorship, etc. What 
can you say of his earlier poems? What is 
his rank as a humorist? How was he re¬ 
garded as a neighbor and friend ? What are 
some of his well known works, both of poetry 
and prose?.148 

JAMES A. GARFIELD. 

When did he become President of the 
United States? What was his age at this 
time ? What was Mr. Garfield’s personal ap¬ 
pearance ? What were the sources of his pop¬ 
ularity ? What were the leading incidents in 
his career? Describe his assassination. What 
was his style of speech? What memorable 
saying did he utter ?.154 

WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT. 

Where and when was he born ? What ac¬ 
cident threw him out of college ? In pursu¬ 
ing a literary career what obstacles did he 
have to overcome ? What is his best known 
history? What other subjects did he write 
upon ? In what respects does he most excel ? 
When did his death occur ?.156 

JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 

What kind of a poet is Mr. Saxe ? What 
can you say of the finish and quality of his 
work? What was his profession outside of 
literature? Name some of his well-known 
poems.160 

JAMES GILLESPIE BLAINE. 

Of what stock was Mr. Blaine born ? What 
did he excel in when a school boy ? Where 
was he educated ? Whom did he marry ? In 
what State did he make his residence ? With 
what newspapers was he connected? What 
was his Cabinet portfolio under Garfield? 
When was he nominated for the Presidency ? 
What is his rank as a writer and orator ? What 
well-known work did he leave after his 
death?.163 

JOHN HAY. 

What kind of productions first brought 
him into notice? What position did he hold 












612 


QUESTIONS ON THE SUBJECTS TREATED. 


in President McKinley’s Cabinet ? What is 
his rank as a statesman and diplomat ? Where 
was he born and educated ? To what foreign 
court was he assigned as ambassador? Name 
his humorous poems.166 

ELIZABETH ACKERS ALLEN. 

By what poem is she universally known ? 
Mention any other author known only by a 
single poem. Of what State is she a native? j 
When was she born? What was her pen- 
name when writing for a magazine? How’ j 
was her first volume of poems received by the I 
public ? Whom did she marry for her first 
husband? What is her rank as a writer? 169 

NANCY PRIEST WAKEFIELD. 

By what poem is she known ? Describe her 
early life and humble circumstances. In what 
Journal was “ Over the River ” published ? 
Whom did she marry and when did she 
die?.171 

HENRY WARD BEECHER. 

What was Mr. Beecher’s rank as a pulpit 
tribune and orator? Mention the incidents 
of his early life ? What college did he at¬ 
tend and when did he graduate ? Where did 
he begin his ministry ? When did he remove 
to Brooklyn and what was the effect of his 
preaching ? What was the first work he pub¬ 
lished? What religious journal did he help 
to found ? What was the cause of his death ? 
Name the titles of his works.172 

ETHEL LYNN BEERS. 

Of what State is she a native, and when 
was she born? What was her maiden name? 
In what journal was the poem by which she 
is known first published? What are the 
characteristics of her style? In what year 
did a volume of her poems appear ? What is 
the title of the poem by which she is distin¬ 
guished? .176 

CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE. 

By what name was Mr. Browne known ? 
What were the essential qualities of his humor? 
Name the incidents in his career. What were 
the titles of some of his lectures? Describe 
his trip to England.177 


FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 

From whom was his mother descended? 
What commercial positions did he hold in the 
city of New York? What New York jour¬ 
nal was he connected with for a time ? What 
is the name and character of his longest 
poem? When were his poems published in 
England? What is the style of Halleck’s 
writings ? What is the name of the poem bv 
which he is best known?.180 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

With what immortal name is that of Lin¬ 
coln always associated? Describe his early 
life and studious habits? What humble oc¬ 
cupations did he engage in before studying 
law? What events brought him first into 
notice? Describe the thrilling tragedy in 
which he lost his life. What were Mr. Lin¬ 
coln’s personal traits ? What can you say of 
his state papers aud speeches ?.182 

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE. 

What periodical did Prentice found, and 
I when? What newspaper in Kentucky did 
I he edit? What two qualities appear in his 
; writings ? What title is given the collection 
of his witticisms? Where was he born and 
educated ?.185 

HENRY W. SHAW. 

By what nom-de-plume is he known ? Re¬ 
late Mark Twain’s saying. Narrate the in¬ 
cident of “ Josh Billings’ Essay on the Mule.” 
What was one sceret of his popular writings? 
Name titles of his works and lectures.. . 187 

MARIETTA HOLLEY. 

State some facts concerning her ancestry 
and family. For what periodical did she first 
write? What is the distinguishing character¬ 
istic of her writings ? What can you say of 
the popularity of her works?.189 

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. 

What are the titles of his novels ? By what 
production is he best known? What ac¬ 
counts for its popularity ?.192 

JAMES THOMAS FIELDS. 

Of what well known periodical was he 
editor? Where was he born? Where and 















QUESTIONS ON THE SUBJECTS TREATED. 613 


in what business did he engage? What 
famous English novelist was his intimate 
friend?.194 

JOHN B. GOUGH. 

Of what great reform was he the champion ? 
What was his rank as an orator? Give an 
account of his birth, early life and reforma¬ 
tion. Name the titles of some of his lectures. 
Where and under what circumstances did he 
die?.197 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

Whose daughter was she ? Where was she 
born and educated ? What was her occupa¬ 
tion? Whom did she marry? Give an ac¬ 
count of her famous story ? What other 
works did she write ? What was her influence 
during the slavery agitation ?.200 

ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 

What can you say of the style and tone of 
their writings? What was Alice Cary’s pen 
name? Where were the sisters born and 
reared ? Where did they reside in the latter 
part of their lives? Repeat the touching 
poem Alice wrote on her death bed ? . . 206 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

By what name is he known? What are 
the peculiarities of his writings? Describe 
his early life and career. What prominent 
element appears in all his writings? What 
renowned poet did he successfully imitate ? 210 

JAMES KIRK PAULDING. 

What nationality did his ancestors belong 
to? What was the title of his earliest work? 
What Cabinet portfolio did he hold, and under 
whose administration? For what are his 
writings distinguished ? Give date and place 
of his birth and death.215 

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

What celebrated production has given him 
his fame? Where and when was he born? 
Mention the incidents of his life. Describe 
Corcoran’s tribute to him at Washington. 218 

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

With what English poetess was she compared? 
What was the moral quality of her writings? 


What was her occupation outside of literature? 
Describe her travels abroad and books relating 
to them. Where did she live and die ? . 220 

JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 

By what work is he made famous? At 
what university and when did he graduate? 
What estimate do eminent scholars place on 
his work ? To what court was he appointed 
minister by our Government?.224 

ROSE TERRY COOKE. 

What is the character of her productions? 
What degree of merit belongs to her? Re¬ 
late her birth and marriage. What works 
has she published?.227 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 

Of what periodical was he editor ? A native 
of what State How was he employed during 
the Civil War? What periodicals was he 
connected with ? Can you name the titles of 
his most prominent works?.229 

EDWARD EGGLESTON. 

What name has been applied to him ? What 
profession did he choose? To what journals 
did he contribute? What is the general 
character of his stories? Name the titles of 
his works.233 

GEORGE HENRY BOKER. 

For what is he especially known ? What 
was the title of his first publication, and when 
was it issued ? What famous poem of Boker’s 
appears in this volume? What magazine did 
he edit in Philadelphia ?.237 

CHAUNCEY MITCHELL DEPEW. 

Narrate his early history. For what was 
he distinguished in college? When did he 
begin his public career? What business did 
he engage in ? What Cabinet positions were 
offered him ? What honor was conferred on 
him in 1899?.240 

HENRY CLAY. 

What is his rank as an orator? What 
name was given him in his boyhood ? What 
were the great events in his career ? Describe 
his personal traits. What offices did he hold ? 














G14 


QUESTIONS ON THE SUBJECTS TREATED. 


When was he a candidate for the Presidency? 
What was the date of his birth ? What the 
date of his death ?.243 

WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

How lias he been described ? What of his 
birth and social connections ? What was his 
profession, and what caused him to abandon 
it? Describe his oratorical powers and 
achievements. What was his personal ap¬ 
pearance? . , . . . . 245 

HENRY WOODFIN GRADY. 

Date of his birth and death ? Rank as an 
orator? How regarded in the Northern and 
Western States ? Who aided him in his early 
struggles? How was his monument procured 
and where does it stand ?.249 

GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS. 

For what was he noted ? What are the titles 
of several of his celebrated lyrics ? To what 
j^eriodicals did he contribute? What work 
did he issue in connection with N. P. Willis? 
What is his rank as a story-writer?. . . 252 

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

Whose son was he ? Where and when was 
he born ? Where did he obtain his education ? 
Name his most remarkable poem. On what 
subject did he lecture? What rank does he 
hold in American literature ?.254 

MARY ABIGAIL DODGE. 

What were her qualities of mind and char¬ 
acter ? How did she get her pen-name ? State 
the leading events of her life. With what 
distinguished statesman was she connected ? 
What are her most important works? . 256 

JOAQUIN MILLER. 

What name is often applied to him ? Nar¬ 
rate the incidents of his roving life. What 
are the peculiarities and merits of his poems ? 
How was he received in England ? Describe 
his poem entitled, “ Kit Carson’s Ride.” . 259 

FRANCIS E. WILLARD. 

How regarded by the women of our country ? 
What were the events of her early life ? What 
reform did she espouse and advocate ? What 


were her personal characteristics? What 
results did she achieve ? What honors were 
conferred upon her? What rendered her 
public addresses so successful? . • . . 263 

EUGENE FIELD. 

Why called the friend of children ? What 
were his traits as a man? Give some account 
of his life. Relate the incidents of his career. 
What journals was he connected with ? Where 
was his early life spent ? What was the origin 
of “ Our Little Boy Blue ? ” Can you repeat 
quotations from his poems ? .267 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

What is his most famous poem ? At what 
institution was he educated? At what age 
and of what disease did he die? What ele¬ 
ments of the true poet belonged to him ? Can 
you repeat his tribute to “The American 
Flag?” .; . . 271 

DANIEL WEBSTER. 

What were the circumstances of his early 
life? What was his rank in college? What 
is one of his well-known sayings? Describe 
the events in his brilliant career. Mention 
some of his great orations. In what famous 
debate did he show his wonderful oratory ? To 
what did he attribute his success? . . . 274 

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMS. 

Of what work is he the author? A native 
of what State? Why did he abandon the 
law for journalism ? Name his well-known 
poems. What prose works did he write? In 
what ways did he show his Southern tastes 
and breeding? .280 

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 

To what religious sect did his family be¬ 
long? What is his native State? What 
work first brought him into notice? Where 
was he sent as consul? What newspapers 
and periodicals has he been connected with 
in New York? What kind of novels does 
he write? Name his best-known works. . 283 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 

What business has he pursued ? When 
and how did he first become known as a 













QUESTIONS ON THE SUBJECTS TREATED. 


615 


poet? What are the titles of his publica¬ 
tions ? What is his most critical and valuable 
work ?.286 

FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. 

Give an account of her birth and early life. 
In what periodical were the “ Widow Bedott 
Tapers ” published ? What rank does she 
hold as a humorist? What work besides 
“ Widow Bedott ” did she publish ? . . 289 

MARY RICE LIVERMORE. 

What is her character? Who were her 
parents? Where was she engaged in teach¬ 
ing? What is her position on all questions of 
reform ? Name her published works. . 292 

WHITELAW REID. 

For what is he celebrated ? Describe his 
career as correspondent. Also as foreign 
minister and diplomat. When was he nomi¬ 
nated for Vice-President? What was his com¬ 
mission at Queen Victoria’s jubilee? What 
New York journal is owned and conducted 
bv Mr. Reid?.294 

WILL CARLETON. 

What kind of a poet is he ? What produc¬ 
tion brought him into notice? What is the 
style and what are the peculiarities of his 
writings? Name some of his popular poems. 
Where was he born and educated? . . . 296 ] 

DONALD GRANT MITCHELL. 

What was his nom-de-plumef Name his 
birth place and the college where he was edu¬ 
cated. What were the titles of his first 
books ? On what work does his fame chiefly 
rest? What was Irving’s estimate of “Ik 
Marvel?” What can you say of “Edge- 
wood ? ”.•.301 

THEODORE ROOSEVELT. 

For what is he distinguished ? State where 
he was born. Narrate the important events 
of his life. Describe his gallantry at San 
Juan Hill. Of what works is he the author ? 
Relate the circumstances of his elevation to 
the Presidency.304 


CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 

What misfortune did he suffer in his boy¬ 
hood? What was his native place? What 
profession did he choose ? Describe his travels 
and name titles of his books? What rank 
does he hold as a song-writer? What famous 
magazine did he found ?.307 

MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE. 

By what name is she known ? What was 
her native State? What her maiden name? 
Connected with what periodicals? Character 
of her writings?.311 

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

Her ancestry, birth and education ? Whom 
did she marry ? What poetic romance did she 
write ? What novels has she published ? Name 
her dramas? ..313 

LUCY LARCOM. 

Why called the “poetess of the mills?” 
Give an account of her early life. To what 
periodical did she contribute? Name the 
date and place of her birth and death. . 316 

WILLIAM WIRT. 

How regarded as an orator ? What famous 
trial did he take part in ? What official posi¬ 
tion did he hold? What works are included 
in his writings?.318 

FISHER AMES. 

How regarded by his contemporaries ? Of 
what party was he the leader? Name the 
incidents of his early life ? Describe the scene 
during his speech on the treaty with Great 
Britain. Place and date of his birth? Also 
of his death ?.321 

ROBERT YOUNG HAYNE. 

Who was his great antagonist in Con¬ 
gress? In what debate was he a conspicuous 
figure? Describe his political career. What 
State did he represent in the Senate? . . 324 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 

What subjects are treated in her writ¬ 
ings? Where and when was she born ? What 
famous seminary did she attend ? What books 













616 


QUESTIONS ON THE SUBJECTS TREATED. 


have won her greatest success ? What can 
you say of her personal traits and attrac¬ 
tions ?.326 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 

State circumstances of his birth and educa- i 
tion. What profession did he choose? What 
is his rank as an educator? What works has 
he written ? What are his traits ? . . . 329 

ROBERT JONES BURDETTE. 

What is the character of his writings? 
What journal in Iowa was he connected with ? 
What are some of his humorous lectures? 
What periodicals has he written for ? . . 331 

LEW WALLACE. 

Relate his military career. What book has 
given him his reputation ? Of what territory 
was he military governor? Name the works 
he has published.334 

LYDIA MARIA CHILD. 

How did she come to write her first story ? 
Whom did she marry? What great reform 
did she espouse ? What of the number of her 
works ?.337 

MARTHA FINLEY. 

What series of books is she known by? 
What can you say of her ancestors? What 
was the character of her first stories? Where 
does she reside and what are her traits of 
character?.341 

PATRICK HENRY. 

At wbat period did he live ? What great 
cause did he advocate ? What was the style 
of his oratory? Describe the scene in the Vir¬ 
ginia Convention. Name his famous ora¬ 
tions. .344 

JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 

In what two lines of effort did he excel? 
Where did he reside in early life? What 
branch of science did he pursue ? What was 
his career in our Civil War? What works 
has he published, and how are they re¬ 
garded? .347 


JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 

Of what period do her historical writings 
treat? Who were her ancestors? How did 
she prepare herself fur her historical novels ? 
What are the titles of some of her works ? 349 

WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

For what was he renowned ? What was his 
rank as an artist? What honors did he 
receive? How regarded as an author? What 
were his personal attractions ? What can you 
say of his manners and accomplishments ? 352 

JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 

Whose son is he ? What can you say of his 
refined style and diction? What are the inci¬ 
dents of his education and early profession? 
Where did he pursue his studies? State his 
career in journalism. What has he writ¬ 
ten?.358 

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 

What can you say of his mother's literary 
reputation? What works has he published? 
What are the characteristics of his writings? 
What were his contributions to the “New 
York Sun?” What is the character of his 
“Gallagher?”.. 362 

SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT. 

What was her pen-name ? What periodical 
did she publish ? What was her maiden name 
and where was she born? Where did she 
pursue her literary labors ? Mention the titles 
of her various works. What estimate should 
be placed on her writings ? What attractive 
qualities do her works contain ? What name 
did President Lincoln give her during the 
Civil War ?.365 

WILLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS. 

What pen-name did he adopt ? What class 
of readers delight in his works? Where was 
he born? What was his occupation for many 
years ? What periodicals did he edit ? What 
was the title of his first work ? Name some 
of his well-known stories..368 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 

What song is he especially known by? 
What professions did he pursue? How did 













QUESTIONS ON THE SUBJECTS TREATED. 


*17 


he come to write Ben Bolt ? ” What are 
t be incidents of his political career ? What was 
the success of his “ Ben Bolt ? ” What popu- 
la r name was associated with this song ? What 
is Mr. English’s native State?. 370 

FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 

How would you describe his writings ? What 
was his first occupation? What periodical 
was he connected with ? What later period¬ 
icals did he write for? What are his most 
celebrated works ? What are the peculiarities 
of his homor ? When did he die ? . . . 375 

CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 

Describe his versatility. What element 
nearly always is prominent in his writings ? 
Where was Mr. Warner bom and when? 
Where did he take his college coarse ? With 
what journal was he connected? What was 
his hrs: ' .. k >' .i_e :.. : :rk~ W- : 
is his rank in authorship? What can you 
say of his interest in edue-.n n? . . . . 378 

LYMAN ABBOTT. 

What do you know of bis family and rela¬ 
tives? What celebrated preacher did 3D. 
Abbott l llow? Rplite lib j iaw a l Kinfa w j 
What periodical has he edited ? What is the 
title of hk journal ? What is the character 
of his teachings * Is he a conservative or a 
radical ? .382 

BENJAMIN P. SHILLABER. 

By what name was he known ? What kind 
of productions gave him celebrity? Where 
and when was he bom ? What curious title 
did he give his first published work ? Where 
did Shillaber reside? What is the date of 
bis death ? .385 

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 

Under what name did he write ? To what 
special line of literary effort has he applied 
himself? What is his history ? What depart¬ 
ment of science is illustrated in his tales ? . 3h9 

JOHN HABBERTON. 

What book gave him prominence as an 
author? What is the character of the work ? 


With what New York house was he con¬ 
nected ? State the events of his early life? 
What periodicals has he been connected 
with ? What are the titles of his published 
works?.394 

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 

What kind of verse does he write ? What 
dialect does he use ? What are the titles • t 
some of his popular poems ? What of his life 
and business ? Relate his career in oar Ctvii 
War. In what battle was he wounded? S&h 

EDWARD PAYSON ROWE 

What dees he aim at in all Lis writings ? 
Where and when was he bom ? Where did 
he reside ? What great disaster was described 
in his first story ? What can you say of the 
number of his works and their sale ? . . 4*j£ 

AMELIA BARR. 

What was her maiden name ? Where was 
she bom ? What k her history after coming 
to the United States? Who befriended her? 
What was the result :: a disabling accident? 
What features are prominent in her wri¬ 
tings? .405 

EDGAR WILLIAM NYE 

A native of what State ? Where educated ? 
Studied f r what profession? Contributed to 
what journals ? Eiitor of what pater ? Names 
of hk books? When and where did he 
die?.-.4W 

JOHN PIER PONT. 

Author of what well kno wn work ? What 
was his native place ? What of his ancestry? 
Repeat his tribute to hk mother. At what 
college was he educated? What was hk 
chosen profession? What does Griswold sav 
of hk lyrics ?.411 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Where and when was Tennyson born? 
What incidents are told of his early Irie and 
elucation? Name the titles of his works. 
What is hk rank am: ng m :dem poets ? What 
k considered hk finest p;em ? State the sub¬ 
stance of Hutton's tribute to him. Repeat 
hk last pern, the one sung at hk funeral. 4d2 









618 


QUESTIONS ON THE 

ROBERT BURNS. 

What were the circumstances of his early 
life? What was his occupation ? Where was 
his birthplace and residence? How did he 
gain public appreciation? What attentions 
were shown him by the cultured classes? 
What is the character of his poems ? Name 
the titles of his famous productions. . . .473 

WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 

What was his character? What was his 
political status? Born for what? Where 
educated? What change did he make in his 
political opinions? What of his scholarship 
and literary ability? What is his rank as an 
orator? When did he die?.480 

ROBERT BROWNING. 

Author of what work ? Name his several 
works. Where did he travel ? How did he 
obtain his distinguished wife ? What of the 
misty obscurities that mark his writings? 484 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

To what class of readers do her works 
appeal? Name some of her works. Who 
was her father ? Where wa3 she born ? When 
and where did she die?.488 

GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 

What was his nationality ? What were the 
traits of his father ? What was the character 
of his mother ? Where did he reside in boy¬ 
hood ? What effect did mountain scenery pro¬ 
duce on him? Relate his checkered history. 
What domestic troubles overtook him ? What 
can you say of his genius? Where and when 
did he die?.493 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

Author of what popular poem? Narrate 
the events of his life. Name his various 
works. What are the titles of his most famous 
p< >ems ? When and where did he die ? Where 
was he buried ?.601 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

What does the author call him? Wliat 
work first brought him into notoriety? Can 
you name any familiar characters in his works ? 


SUBJECTS TREATED. 

What was his early occupation ? What classes 
of people always enlisted his sympathies? 
How many times did he visit America? . 506 

THOMAS MOORE. 

By what name is he designated ? Author of 
what famous song? Where born and edu¬ 
cated? Whom did he marry? Relate his 
misfortunes. Name his various works. What 
is his most celebrated poem ? What of the style 
of his verse? What of him socially? . 516 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Rank as a romancist? What of his poems ? 
Describe his career. Of what famous series 
of novels is he the author? What are the 
chief charms of his novels? What were his 
misfortunes ? How did he overcome adversity? 
Where was his last residence ? What emotions 
are depicted in most of his writings ? . . 524 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 

Relate his history, including his birth and 
life in London. What is the number of his 
dramas? What is his rank as a dramatist? 
When did Shakespeare die? What tribute 
was paid his memory by an American ? What 
is the world’s estimate of his genius? Name 
titles of his dramas. Can you repeat any 
extracts from his works ?.532 

WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. 

For what is he renowned? Where was 
Thackeray born and educated? What pro¬ 
fession did he give up for literature ? To 
what periodicals did he contribute? When 
did he visit the United States, and how was 
he received ? When did his death occur? . 540 

THOMAS HOOD. 

What famous poems did he write ? What 
kind of verse did he employ? What does 
Rossetti say of him? Mention dates of his 
birth and death.546 

LORD MACAULEY. 

In what departments of literature did he 
achieve distinction ? What are the incidents 
in his early life and education? Of what 
great historical work is he the author ? What 
of his domestic virtues? What are the merits 
of his literary style?.552 










619 


QUESTIONS ON THE 

JOHN MILTON. 

What is his celebrated work? What mis¬ 
fortune befel him? His birth and death? 
What of his ancestry ? What of his religious 
character ? Name his best-known works. . 559 

DOUGLAS WILLIAM JERROLD. 

What humorous character is associated with 
his name? What London periodical was he 
connected with? What are the titles of his 
published works ?.565 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

What profession did he abandon for litera¬ 
ture? Where did he fill the position of 
teacher? Relate amusing incidents showing 
his poverty. What are his popular works 
named? What successful comedy did he 
write ? Where was he buried ? Where is a 
monument erected to him ?.567 

RUDYARD KIPLING. 

Where was he born ? At what school was 
he educated? What is the character of his 
fictions? What is his best poem? In what 
production did he criticise Great Britain’s 
conduct of the South African war? . . 572 

FELICIA DOROTHEA HE MANS. 

What can you tell of her birth and parent" 
age? For what was she remarkable in early 
life? What were the leading events of her 
history ? What are the most popular of her 
poems? What estimate did Lord Jeffrey 
place on her writings?.575 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

What is said of his genius? What rank 
does he hold as a poet? Narrate the story of 
his life. What are his. most celebrated pro¬ 
ductions? How did he lose his life? . . 579 

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 

What were his early advantages? For 
what have his works been criticized ? What 


SUBJECTS TREATED. 

works has he published ? Name the place and 
date of his birth.583 

GEORGE ELIOT. 

In what department of literature is she dis¬ 
tinguished ? When was her first work issued ? 
What are her personal and mental traits? 
Name her well-known works of fiction. What 
are the merits of these works ? Whom did she 
marry ?.586 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

For what is he noted ? What infirmities did 
he suffer from? What famous ballad did he 
write? When was he born ? The date of his 
death?.591 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

What has he been styled? Where did he 
reside ? When was he appointed poet-laureate ? 
Of what works was he the author? What is 
his most celebrated production? .... 595 

ALFRED AUSTIN. 

What official position does he hold? What 
periodicals has he written for? What is the 
popular estimate of his poetry ? .... 598 

CHARLES KINGSLEY. 

Author of what popular work? What was 
his profession ? Name the titles of his novels. 
What are the prominent incidents of his 
life?.602 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

Where was he born ? What were his pecu¬ 
liarities as a man ? At what university did 
he study? What can you say of his genius? 
Who were his intimate friends ? . . . . 605 

JOHN RUSK IN. 

An authority on what subject? Name his 
renowned works. How many volumes has he 
published? What were his personal qualities? 
When did he die?.607 







































